My Magnificent Seven: A Memoir of Students Who Have Shaped My Teaching
by Kathleen O'Donovan
Editor's Note: The Center for Teaching
and Learning sponsors the Making a Meaning of a Life
in Teaching program in which cohorts of faculty gather
to reflect upon their teaching careers. The following
excerpt is from Kathleen O'Donovan's, "My Magnificent
Seven: A
Memoir of Students Who Have Shaped My Teaching."
Seven. I admire that number. Many important things come in groups
of seven – weekdays, chakras, cardinal virtues, deadly sins,
wonders of the world, colors of the rainbow, and, according to
Shakespeare, stages of man. Professionally, seven holds special
meaning for me. Over the stages of my development as a teacher,
seven students have influenced both my
philosophy about teaching and learning as well as my classroom
practice.
After completing a B.S. in Spanish and Speech, I taught Spanish
for three years at the high school and junior high school level
in Minneapolis,
Minnesota. During that same interval, I began "testing the
waters" in
alternative instructional venues. Two of the most memorable were
in adult basic education and preschool foreign language. After
completing my M.A. in English as a Second Language and Ph.D. in
Foreign Language
Education, I had taught students ranging in ages between three
and
eighty-three. Now, as I reflect on an extensive sample size, there
have been seven students whose personal impact on me has been extraordinary – they
have transformed me and my perspectives on teaching and learning.
Here are my "magnificent seven."
Reggie: A three-year-old African American student
in a
demonstration preschool Spanish class
Nancy: An over-achieving 13-year-old who garnered
the role of Goldilocks
in a middle school's first Foreign Language Festival
Nacho: A twenty-something gay student teacher
from
El Paso, Texas
Sauwo: An illiterate Liberian grandmother whom
I taught to read and
write
Daniel: A high school senior registered in my
beginning Spanish class
and study hall
Mr. Park: A Korean grandfather participating
in an evening Adult ESL class
Mr. Poon: A Cambodian scholar enrolled in two
ESL classes that
I taught
Reflecting on my thirty-plus years in teaching, I have come to
think of those seven students as "reservoirs of revelation." Through
their uniqueness, each one has caused a hidden aspect of my teaching
soul to be revealed. Because of their personal attributes, special
attitudes, and sometimes
challenging behaviors, I was brought to the edge of my instructional
comfort zone and summarily pushed over. In this memoir, my goal
is to relate key memories I have of each student, identify a suitable
symbol that represents each one, and describe each student's
unique imprint on my classroom practice. For the purpose of this
excerpt, I concentrate on a
single student.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Mr. Poon's smiling face will be etched forever in my mind.
A broad, toothy grin greeted me twice daily during a spring quarter
in the early eighties.
Mr. Poon was registered in two ESL classes that I taught: Basic
Pronunciation and Intermediate Grammar. Though chronologically
older than his mostly Latin
American and Middle Eastern peers, Mr. Poon's classmates
thought he was much younger
than his actual age. Perhaps his slight stature (around 5' 2")
and high voice contributed to
that misconception.
The Latinos expressed special regard for him – especially
for his name. They consistently called him "Mr. Espoon." That
mangled moniker always made him and the entire class laugh. In
casual conversations, he was also called the "Map Man." As
a visiting scholar in geography, Mr. Poon gifted our classroom
with a large wall map of the world. I appreciated his generosity
because the map became a convenient resource for talking about
time, topography, sports, climate, cuisine, and cultural traditions.
When I entered the classroom, I often found Poon standing near
the map. In that space, his inner teacher came to the fore. I watched
him invite students to locate their hometowns and cities with colored
punch pins and then to share a special insight about that "sacred
space."
After several one-to-one consultations with me, Mr. Poon asked
if I would like to hear something about his life back home. Of
course I said "yes," and I felt deeply honored by the
fact that he chose to share something of his personal life with
me.
He began by asking me to look at the wall map with him. As he
referenced strange sounding places, Poon started to share stories
of his family, his schooling, and his teaching experiences prior
to the uprising of the Khmer Rouge. I followed his narrative closely
and demonstrated my interest by asking him intermittent questions,
such as: "What did your father do for work? Does your married
sister have children? Do you have nieces and nephews?" As
he spoke, I took note of how Poon's life as the responsible
elder son and accomplished scholar had been riddled with loss – the
visible and invisible kinds of losses that accompany political,
social, economic, and personal upheaval. While feeling captivated
by his story-telling skills, I recalled experiencing a sense of
uneasiness. At times, it felt as
if I were eavesdropping on an intimate tale or a final confession.
During that brief exchange, I witnessed Poon's body and
voice become that of an orphaned child, a disillusioned teacher,
a grieving widower, and a dashed dreamer. He stopped his conversation,
leaving me holding much of his pain. My student had taken me to
key stops on his life path of sorrows, and I felt his sadness blend
with my own.
At the end of his story, Poon told me of his intention to return
to Cambodia at the end of his academic work at the University.
That meant that he would be going back to Cambodia in approximately
one year. I tried to listen respectfully to his rationale for returning
to his homeland, but Poon's stories raised questions for
me that I wanted and needed to ask.
Q: How can you be so happy when you have suffered so much?
A: That's all history. I can't change history – only
how I think and feel about it.
Q: You're always smiling, Mr. Poon. What does that grin
really mean?
A: I am here. I am safe. I am healthy. I am hopeful.
Q: But why do you want to go back to Cambodia at this time?
Isn't
it dangerous?
A: Of course it's dangerous there. But it's my home.
They're my people, and they are suffering. I will return.
Poon and I shared many ideas and insights during subsequent meetings.
Those unfolded over the summer and into the following year. I took
him out for a farewell dinner at a restaurant in Dinkytown. There,
he gave me two
beautiful teacups and saucers. When the time came to part, teacher
from teacher and friend from friend, neither
of us was able to say the word, "goodbye." Instead,
we let a long hug speak for us. Poon left Minnesota that
weekend. We corresponded for several months, maybe six or seven.
I remember writing him a long letter describing my dream of beginning
a doctoral program in foreign language education. He never replied.
I wrote him three more letters after that one. None was answered
or returned. After a while, I stopped both writing and waiting.
How did Mr. Poon affect my teaching practice? That answer lies
in the visual representation I chose for him –
the symbol for yin/yang. In his strength, vulnerability was present,
and in his vulnerability, strength was present.
Without ever asking or knowing, I chose Poon to be my mentor. He
taught me about the importance of
ambiguity and the prevalence of paradox in the classroom and in
life. An example of the latter is that he was as much my teacher
as I was his. Throughout the years, I have sensed Poon's
influence on my classroom practice. I am grateful to him for modeling
how to move courageously towards the unknown, for demonstrating
how to welcome change and its byproducts – loss and transition,
and for acknowledging not only the connectivity among all things,
but also the people, places, and things that represent our physical,
emotional, and spiritual roots.
The influences that shape teachers' lives and that
move teachers' actions are . . .
likely to be found in a complex web of formative memories and experiences.
(Stephen Brookfield, p.49)
For me, creating this memoir about my life in teaching has proven
Stephen Brookfield's statement true. My efforts to make meaning
through autobiographical connections with a handful of students
has provided me with a rich
vein of experiences and memories. I have tried to mine those using
the tools of discernment, reflection, love, and
courage. In truth, I discovered that the task not only generated
new knowledge, but it also tapped into unresolved grief, unexpected
blockages, and enduring anxieties. Initially, one of the hardest
things for me to do was to
identify those students and experiences that transformed my self-perception
as a teacher and my classroom practices. I discovered that the
task of honing down the list was more visceral than intellectual.
In fact, in a couple of cases, I wanted NOT to include a specific
student because it would have been easier for me to do so. I knew
that writing about our connection would
provoke anxiety, sadness, and regret. Somehow, I realized that
I had to include that particular student, and I did.
Forcing myself to reflect critically about memorable students
from the past (as well as potential readers in the future) has
provided rationale for me
to believe that teachers are like architects; that is, they design
space, select
materials, create innovative outcomes, and engender patterns of
interaction that may well change not only the landscape of their
students' outside world, but also the inner terrain of their
bodies, minds, and hearts.
Reference
Brookfield, S. D. (1995). Becoming a critically reflective
teacher.
San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.
Kathleen O'Donovan is an education specialist at the Center
for Teaching
and Learning. She is co-founder of the Making a Meaning of a Life
in
Teaching program. The full essay can be found at: http://www.umn.edu/ohr/img/assets/18007/odonovan3.pdf.
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