Becoming a Teacher
Gallia Vickery’s turn at the ToadTalk “podium” came a couple of weeks
ago – as all such good natured homilies, at Monday morning’s Assembly.
On this particular early spring morning, she spoke to students leaning
into each other under the warmth of sun especially welcome amidst
unseasonably late, chilly rains.
Trained in classical ballet (she danced with the Cleveland Ballet before attending Princeton University), Gallia soon enough fell in love with modern dance and musical theater and, shortly thereafter, with the boarding school life. Lucky for us all, she arrived at Thacher fifteen years ago with her husband Bill and two daughters to teach all levels of mathematics and to invigorate the Dance Program, then in its struggling infancy. Here, “Ms. Vick” shares possible answers to a question many faculty members ask themselves at some point along the way.
How Did I Ever Become a Teacher?
First, a brief disclaimer. After all the hoopla about the book A Million Little Pieces, and the truth about that memoir, let me just say that some of my quotations are verbatim from report cards, papers and notes to my parents, which my mother—bless her heart—saved. Others are memories of mine, which have undoubtedly been exaggerated and embellished over time.
Ms. Vick the early years:
First grade report card: “Gallia appears uninterested in our program. It is especially difficult to get her engaged in the math activities. At these times she either sits quietly playing with her hair or disrupts those around her.”
Fifth grade. The ”What do you want to be when you grow up paper.” I wrote, “I’d really like to be a ballerina if I’m good enough. I want to live in New York City. I don’t want to be a secretary or a teacher. Never.” And never was underlined.
Ninth grade. My best friend joins the FTA – Future teachers of America. We stop hanging out so much.
My teachers had it rough. I wasn’t easy and I wasn’t very forgiving. If a teacher started out badly, I didn’t give him a break. Take, for example, Mr. Birnbaum. Tenth grade Geometry. First day. Mr. Birnbaum takes attendance. He gets to me. “Kuharsky, Ga- lee – a?” Strike 1. “Gaul-ya,” I reply, pronouncing my name for what already feels like the thousandth time. “Not another Kuharsky,” he says. “Andrew’s sister?” Strike 2. Yep, that’s me, the sister, the second child. Could he stop there? Apparently, he could not. He followed with something along the lines of, “Are you going to be as difficult as he was?” Strike 3. Let’s just say I spent the majority of the year proving that I could, in fact, be much more difficult than my brother. At this high school we earned a letter grade A through F and a number 1 through 5 for attitude, cooperation and class behavior. I earned my first A5.
Eleventh Grade – Mental Math team. Mrs. Wallis. We met twice a week after school, though I attended only one meeting because of my dance schedule. This created a bit of tension with my teammates. A letter sent home: “I am concerned about Gallia’s continued participation on the math team. While Gallia is quite bright, she is not much of a team player. The other members of the team and I find her difficult to work with. She also asks too many questions and can be disruptive.” (Are you sensing a theme here?) I found Mrs. Wallis pretty difficult to work with, too.
One of the rewards for having a good GPA at my school was that you could spend a study hall period in an academic office, rather than in the huge cafetorium. (This is a public school word for a combination cafeteria/auditorium.) I chose the math office. With this privilege came the expectation that you would offer help to younger students who came by. I was really bad at this. I mean really bad. Students would wait in line to get help from someone else rather than ask me. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to actually help anyone else understand things that came easily to me. I’d look at a problem and say, “Oh, just do this and the answer is this. Don’t you get it?” Big help.
College. Calculus II. I can’t remember the actual problem, but my recollection was that the entire board was covered with the solution. I was definitely lost in the process and could not find my mistake. I tried to ask a question. I had a graduate student as a T.A; his English wasn’t very good. “OK, we try again,” he said and proceeded to erase the board and rewrite the steps in exactly the same way with no additional verbal explanation. Another big help.
[The truth is,] teaching was just something I decided to try fresh out of college—and I’ve never really wanted to do anything else since. (Except maybe become a famous choreographer – but that’s actually still in the teaching field.) At my tenth college reunion an old friend of mine asked me if I was still doing “that teaching thing” and whether or not I was planning on getting a real job. “And what do you make anyway?” he said. Well, clearly less that he did, so what was the point? There’s a great teacher story in which the answer to that question, “’What do you make?’ is “I make a difference.” But I was neither that witty nor sure that I made any difference at all. I just knew that I really liked walking into the classroom every day, and that--believe it or not--occasionally, summer vacations are too long for me.
I’ve learned a lot as a teacher; it’s been my continuing education. I’ve tried to pay attention to the learning, to try and understand what or how a student is thinking. I try to explain the error--not just what’s wrong, but how he or she went wrong in the process. I know that it’s important to me to understand, not just imitate --though sometimes I think you imitate first and then learn from the process. I know that asking questions is vital.
I love it when students ask questions I can’t answer—though it took me a long while to get to this place. As a younger teacher I thought I had to know everything, or pretend I did; then I thought I just had to stay a few steps ahead of my students. But when students ask questions beyond the answer to a math problem or the next step in a dance sequence, those are the questions that contain the most potential - potential for connections, for gaining understanding that is deep and true, and for learning that leads to better questions.
So maybe I’m a different kind of teacher than many of those whose lives I made difficult in high school—or maybe I’m fortunate enough to teach a different kind of student.
For this, I have all of you to thank.
Back
Trained in classical ballet (she danced with the Cleveland Ballet before attending Princeton University), Gallia soon enough fell in love with modern dance and musical theater and, shortly thereafter, with the boarding school life. Lucky for us all, she arrived at Thacher fifteen years ago with her husband Bill and two daughters to teach all levels of mathematics and to invigorate the Dance Program, then in its struggling infancy. Here, “Ms. Vick” shares possible answers to a question many faculty members ask themselves at some point along the way.
How Did I Ever Become a Teacher?
First, a brief disclaimer. After all the hoopla about the book A Million Little Pieces, and the truth about that memoir, let me just say that some of my quotations are verbatim from report cards, papers and notes to my parents, which my mother—bless her heart—saved. Others are memories of mine, which have undoubtedly been exaggerated and embellished over time.
Ms. Vick the early years:
First grade report card: “Gallia appears uninterested in our program. It is especially difficult to get her engaged in the math activities. At these times she either sits quietly playing with her hair or disrupts those around her.”
Fifth grade. The ”What do you want to be when you grow up paper.” I wrote, “I’d really like to be a ballerina if I’m good enough. I want to live in New York City. I don’t want to be a secretary or a teacher. Never.” And never was underlined.
Ninth grade. My best friend joins the FTA – Future teachers of America. We stop hanging out so much.
My teachers had it rough. I wasn’t easy and I wasn’t very forgiving. If a teacher started out badly, I didn’t give him a break. Take, for example, Mr. Birnbaum. Tenth grade Geometry. First day. Mr. Birnbaum takes attendance. He gets to me. “Kuharsky, Ga- lee – a?” Strike 1. “Gaul-ya,” I reply, pronouncing my name for what already feels like the thousandth time. “Not another Kuharsky,” he says. “Andrew’s sister?” Strike 2. Yep, that’s me, the sister, the second child. Could he stop there? Apparently, he could not. He followed with something along the lines of, “Are you going to be as difficult as he was?” Strike 3. Let’s just say I spent the majority of the year proving that I could, in fact, be much more difficult than my brother. At this high school we earned a letter grade A through F and a number 1 through 5 for attitude, cooperation and class behavior. I earned my first A5.
Eleventh Grade – Mental Math team. Mrs. Wallis. We met twice a week after school, though I attended only one meeting because of my dance schedule. This created a bit of tension with my teammates. A letter sent home: “I am concerned about Gallia’s continued participation on the math team. While Gallia is quite bright, she is not much of a team player. The other members of the team and I find her difficult to work with. She also asks too many questions and can be disruptive.” (Are you sensing a theme here?) I found Mrs. Wallis pretty difficult to work with, too.
One of the rewards for having a good GPA at my school was that you could spend a study hall period in an academic office, rather than in the huge cafetorium. (This is a public school word for a combination cafeteria/auditorium.) I chose the math office. With this privilege came the expectation that you would offer help to younger students who came by. I was really bad at this. I mean really bad. Students would wait in line to get help from someone else rather than ask me. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to actually help anyone else understand things that came easily to me. I’d look at a problem and say, “Oh, just do this and the answer is this. Don’t you get it?” Big help.
College. Calculus II. I can’t remember the actual problem, but my recollection was that the entire board was covered with the solution. I was definitely lost in the process and could not find my mistake. I tried to ask a question. I had a graduate student as a T.A; his English wasn’t very good. “OK, we try again,” he said and proceeded to erase the board and rewrite the steps in exactly the same way with no additional verbal explanation. Another big help.
[The truth is,] teaching was just something I decided to try fresh out of college—and I’ve never really wanted to do anything else since. (Except maybe become a famous choreographer – but that’s actually still in the teaching field.) At my tenth college reunion an old friend of mine asked me if I was still doing “that teaching thing” and whether or not I was planning on getting a real job. “And what do you make anyway?” he said. Well, clearly less that he did, so what was the point? There’s a great teacher story in which the answer to that question, “’What do you make?’ is “I make a difference.” But I was neither that witty nor sure that I made any difference at all. I just knew that I really liked walking into the classroom every day, and that--believe it or not--occasionally, summer vacations are too long for me.
I’ve learned a lot as a teacher; it’s been my continuing education. I’ve tried to pay attention to the learning, to try and understand what or how a student is thinking. I try to explain the error--not just what’s wrong, but how he or she went wrong in the process. I know that it’s important to me to understand, not just imitate --though sometimes I think you imitate first and then learn from the process. I know that asking questions is vital.
I love it when students ask questions I can’t answer—though it took me a long while to get to this place. As a younger teacher I thought I had to know everything, or pretend I did; then I thought I just had to stay a few steps ahead of my students. But when students ask questions beyond the answer to a math problem or the next step in a dance sequence, those are the questions that contain the most potential - potential for connections, for gaining understanding that is deep and true, and for learning that leads to better questions.
So maybe I’m a different kind of teacher than many of those whose lives I made difficult in high school—or maybe I’m fortunate enough to teach a different kind of student.
For this, I have all of you to thank.
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