Flashback: A Teacher Tribute

I’ve had so many great, influential and memorable teachers over the many years I spent in school (21 if you want to be precise!) that there’s no way I could narrow it down to just one or two who had a profound impact on me.

Instead, here’s a list of the ones I’d like to acknowledge and why.

You’ll notice there are quite a few from elementary school, fewer from high school and only one from my 6 years of university at three different institutions. Maybe that’s because the formative years are the most important. Maybe it’s because I spent much of 1989 through 1995 drinking Wildberry Coolers and doing trays of $1 shooters (when I wasn’t swooning over some cute boy I’d just met or crying over one who’d just broken my heart).

In any case, here’s my Teacher Tribute:

  • Mrs. Deveau, my kindergarten teacher, who quickly noticed that every time we had free play time in class, I headed for the piano…and who for the next two years, let me come into the kindergarten room half an hour before the bell rang every morning to practice, until she finally convinced my parents to get me lessons and a piano of my own when I was in Grade 2.
  • Madame Benjaminsen, my Grade 4 French teacher, who made “Frère Jacques” more than just a jumble of funny sounds and opened my ears to the beauty and intricacies of foreign languages.
  • Mr. Adili, my elementary school teacher for 3 straight years (Grades 5, 6 and 7), who saw me through the most awkward years of my life and taught me to never be ashamed of who I am and how well I can do.
  • Miss Trudeau, my Grade 8 teacher, who went against the curriculum and insisted on giving weekly spelling tests until graduation day, and who I credit with my love of English , my appreciation for the difference between “there,” “their” and “they’re,” and my career as an editor.
  • Mrs. Seabourne, one of my high school English teachers, whose creative approach to Shakespeare made an entire class WANT to read Hamlet.
  • Mrs. Payne, another high school English teacher, who somehow kept tabs on me over the years after graduation and even showed up at my mom’s funeral a decade later.
  • Mr. X, my Grade 11 physics teacher, who, as the most disliked teacher of my entire education, still taught me an important lesson: that it’s better to stand up for yourself and for what you believe in (in this case that no self-respecting 16-year-old girl should be forced to sit through an entire semester being taught by a misogynistic lout) than to shut up and put up.
  • Sister Corona Sharp, an Ursuline Sister who taught me several English courses at university, who pushed me outside my comfort zone and forced me to get involved (in everything from a Shakespearean puppet show to taking over her class one day to present an essay topic I was working on that she thought the class would enjoy), showing me in the process that scary isn’t necessarily bad.
  • My good friend Kelly, who brings her 20 years of teaching experience and her wealth of knowledge to every book club meeting we have, who has mastered the art of leaving us smarter and more enlightened than when we arrived without us even realizing it at the time, and who I’m sure will someday be named on a teacher tribute list by students who were lucky enough to be in her classes.

Check out Luc’s thoughts on teachers.


Flashback: How I Spent My Summer Vacation

The kids went back to school last week. A few days ahead of time they started complaining.

“It can’t be time to go back to school already!”

“Summer went by way too fast!”

I felt bad for them (and no, I’m not being sarcastic). I don’t think it’s fair that at 8 and 10 years old they already feel time going by so quickly. Because when I was a kid, summers really did seem to last forever. And I don’t think I’m just being nostalgic or that it’s all relative now that I’m looking back several decades on with the realization that the older I get the faster time passes.

Part of the difference in perception, I’m sure, comes from the fact that my summers were largely unstructured. There were great swathes of time when my brother and I were left to our own devices. My mom, a stay-at-home mom like all of the other moms on our street, was there…but she certainly wasn’t there. As in guiding our days, planning our activities or participating in our fun. (My clearest summer memories of my mom are of her watching General Hospital, jarring her own apple sauce and dill pickles, enjoying a gin and tonic and reading her book, or waxing the kitchen floor with the admonition “I don’t want you back in this house until it’s dry!” I’m sure her days were much fuller than that, but really she’s just this hazy presence in the background ready to appear with peanut butter sandwiches at lunchtime.)

Nope our fun was all our own, and included hours upon hours:

  • Playing with our Legos.
  • Colouring velvet doodle posters at the picnic table in our backyard.
  • Playing Barbies with the girls next door and across the street. (That would be me, not my brother.)
  • Climbing trees.
  • Building forts with lawnchairs and blankets.
  • Putting on plays.
  • Playing board games. (A good game of Monopoly could last for days and was the one thing we didn’t have to put away at the end of the day if it was still ongoing.)
  • Riding our bikes.
  • Pool hopping from one backyard to another (I’m really not sure where the moms were while we were doing this. There were certainly no fences around the pools, no locked gates and no supervision that we were aware of. Just a dripping gaggle of sunburnt kids running with their towels to the next pool, diving in and playing Marco Polo or mermaids.)
  • Playing mini-golf.
  • Playing on the playground equipment at the school.
  • Exploring the ravine behind the school. (The only guidance we got from mom on those occasions was “Don’t fall in the river and drown” and “Watch out for the creepy guy in the trench coat.” Words to live by.)
  • Playing hide-and-seek until dark.

The only organized activities we had were swimming lessons every morning at the public pool at the end of the street (which we walked to on our own), and one sport per season (which, be it soccer or softball, we rode our bikes to on our own, with nary a parent in sight).

I’d love to be the mom who fades into the background, letting her kids do as they will while I enjoy a gin and tonic (well, OK, a glass of wine) and read my book all the lazy live-long day. But my childhood summers and theirs are just not the same.

Where my brother and I had friends up and down the street who were also around all summer, most of my kids’ friends were in daycamps week after week. This made scheduled playdates a necessity and put more pressure on me to keep them entertained with outings and activities since they often only had each other.

And where my brother and I had our freedom and our health, the girl’s diabetes keeps her tied to me for glucose checks, insulin injections, snacks, meals and treatments (at least until she’s older and more able to deal with all of that herself), making every day a logistical feat and preventing her from taking off and riding her bike, going to the park or exploring on her own.

No, they were not overscheduled with daycamps and organized sports. And yes, they played with their Legos and built forts. They coloured and played on the swing set in the backyard. But I also took them to museums and the library and the mall. And came to the rescue when they complained “We’re bored” (in retrospect, maybe more often than I should have). And made sure they ate on time.  And made it to their playdates on time.

And part of me thinks it must be that extra sense of structure and scheduling that’s to blame for making their summer go by that much more quickly than mine used to do.

I really hope their school year flies by. So we can try for a forever summer next year.

Check out Luc’s thoughts on his childhood summers.