Education is not the filling of a pail but the lighting of a fire
– William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, dramatist and writer.
A friend made a thoughtful Thanksgiving suggestion in an email last week. He encouraged us to reach out to “someone whose creative work means a lot to you” — like a novelist, banker, economist, artist, or musician — and to let them know. Many of them work hard and often face rejection.
“A quick, kind word can go a long, long way,” he said.
Inspired by that idea, I want to thank the unsung heroes who pour their hearts and souls into shaping minds, often without receiving the recognition they deserve: teachers.
We all know how important education is. It lifts families out of poverty more than anything else and can also bring intangible joys, introducing people to new books, art, music and ideas.
When education succeeds, it’s almost always because of teachers. I was fortunate to have several great ones in school, including Madam Lucy in fifth and sixth grade, who made Mathematics seem like the world’s most exciting language; Mr. Sadin, whose wit, wisdom, humour and passion were especially effective when used in the service of explaining why I was wrong; and Madam Subi and Mr. Charlie Chung, a Murderer’s Row of Mathematics teachers whose mnemonics I can still sing.
These teachers changed my life’s direction, and I’m forever indebted to them.
Teachers may be the biggest in-school factor, but many out-of-school factors weigh heavily on student performance, like growing child poverty, hunger, homelessness, home and neighbourhood instability, adult role-modeling and parental pressure and expectations.
The first teacher to clear those hurdles in my life was Madam Lucy.
She wasn’t just teaching school lessons but life lessons. For her, it was about more than facts and figures. It was about the love of learning and the love of self. It was the great entangle, education in the grandest frame, what sticks with you when all else falls away. As Albert Einstein once said, “Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school.”
From first to sixth grade, I attended a school in a village because my mother worked there as a cleaner.
I was not a great student. Mr. Jika had me fumbling around in Plato’s cave while Madam Cynthia taught me the art of stringing sentences together into good stories. Then there was Mr. Caesar, introducing me to literature that just made me want to nod off. Sometimes, I’d vanish from school for months, simply because I couldn’t muster the interest in what they were teaching.
I started to fade into the background. Most teachers didn’t seem to see me nor did I see them.
Eventually, I was temporarily placed in the “slow” class. No one explained to me why. Instead, they just sent a terse note. I didn’t believe that I was slow, but somehow, I began to live down to their expectations.
As I moved up to sixth grade, I landed in Madam Lucy’s class.
There I was, a little nothing of a boy, lost and slumped, flickering in and out of being.
She was a pint-sized firecracker of a woman, with short curly hair, big round glasses set wider than her face, and a thin slit of a mouth that she kept well-lined with red lipstick.
On the first day of class, she gave us a Math quiz. Maybe it was the nervousness of being the “new kid,” but I quickly jotted down the answers and turned in the test — first.
“Whoa! That was quick. Medecci, we’re going to call you Speedy Gonzales.”
She said it with a broad approving smile and the kind of eyes that warmed you on the inside.
She put her arm around me and pulled me close while she graded my paper with the other hand. I got a couple of answers wrong, but most was right.
I couldn’t remember a teacher ever smiling with approval, putting their hand around me or praising my performance in any way.
It was the first time that I felt a teacher cared about me, saw me or believed in me. It lit a fire in me. I never got a bad grade in Mathematics again. I figured that Madam Lucy would always be able to see me if I always shined. I always wanted to make her as proud of me as she seemed to be that day. And, she always was.
In secondary school, things took an unexpected turn when the education district office (PPD) sent a counsellor to scout and test our IQ for an upcoming Math competition organised by the US embassy. Turns out that not only was I not slow, but mine and another classmate’s IQ scores were high enough that the headmaster Mr. Paul created a special class just for us, with specialist teachers Mr Charlie Chung and Madam Subi coming over once a week.
Facing off against well-established English-speaking schools in the city seemed impossible, especially coming from a rural school. When I protested that I didn’t have the confidence to compete, Madam Lucy stepped in, and inspiring and pushing me forward every step of the way.
She even helped cover the fees and held study sessions during lunch and after school. Together, we tackled the complex questions that would be asked at the competition.
Against all odds, I went on to win gold medals with full marks for Algebra 2, securing my school’s first place.
Speechless and not fluent in English at the time, I could only respond with a bow. Madam Lucy was quick to congratulate me.
“You are not slow anymore.
“You’re just as capable as anyone else. You can accomplish anything you set your mind to,” she said warmly.
Later, after years of follow ups with the embassy official, I became more determined than ever to major in economics and pursue a career as an investment banker.
Suddenly, the world felt larger, my hazy future a little clearer.
All of that was because of her, the firecracker of a teacher who first saw me and smiled with the smile that warmed me on the inside.
So to all of the Madam Lucies out there, all the teachers struggling to reach lost children like I was once, again, I just want to say thank you. You deserve our admiration, not our contempt. Happy Teachers’ Day.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
