A Teaching Life: In the US, England
& Russia
The Girl in the Yellow Dress
July 8, 2024, a Saturday in San Miguel de Allende, where I live.
I turn and see her coming, the yellow dress. I am locked in. She immobile, leaned-back immobile, in her yellow dress, her body tilting to the right. Her head immobile, further right. I stand on her left. She, oh so alert. Her smile, her upper teeth gleaming. I’m mesmerized.
Her father, lean, older, guiding her chair now paused. In front of her, her mother, lean, glasses, red lipstick, gentle.
But for a moment it’s me and the girl in the yellow dress in her wheelchair. I’m feeling a deep presence, mesmerized, speechless, she immobile, such presence.…
It's turtles all the way down
I‘ve been engaged writing four manuscripts, which I will share at a later date. In two of them, one directed to teachers, the other to the public, I have 99 entries that are designed to bring solace, calm, reflection and inspiration; you decide if that’s true for you. Here's one, “It’s Turtles All the Way Down,”:
“There’s an old joke about a King who goes to a Wiseperson and asks how is it that the Earth doesn’t fall down. The Wiseperson replies, ‘The Earth is resting on a lion.’ ‘On what then is the lion resting?’ ‘The lion is resting on an elephant.’ ‘On what is the elephant resting?’ ‘The elephant is resting on a turtle.’ ‘On what is the…’ ‘You can stop right there, Your Majesty. It’s turtles all the way down.’”
On the opposite page are commentaries, one in general (we), one for the reader (you). If interested, read on.
I'm back! Again!
My website went down but has returned. When I started my blog in October, 2022, (Wow, that long ago?), I named it “A Teaching Life: In the US, England, & Russia.” It was just after Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, hence my first entry “People, Not Putin and Other Thoughts.” Many of the early entries focused on my thoughts about that war, about my understandings coming from my experiences in the former Soviet Union. For a while, Americans appeared eager to support Zelenskyy and the Ukrainian people. While I believe the support is still there, even after the Republicans craziness in withholding aid, national politics has come front and center and for obvious reasons.
Meanwhile I continue to write. Having published six books, all but one focusing on teaching, I have now completed a manuscript about my life as a teacher, a memoir of my life in the classroom from my first day at Hanover NH Junior-Senior High School in September 1962 to my last class at Bancroft School in Worcester MA in 1999. I am calling it “Teacher in the Rye: Doing It My Way.” Why that title?
I'm back!
Welcome back to myself. I’ve been away from this site traveling, writing, living. The good news, I have completed two manuscripts for which I will be seeking a publisher or two. The first is Teacher in the Rye: Doing It My Way, a memoir of my life through being in the classroom from 1962 to 1999 in three countries, a late twentieth teacher doing his thing. My hope is for readers to see what’s possible in a classroom and perhaps stimulate memories. The second Wisdom for Troubled Times: Seeking Solace and Inspiration is a compilation of 99 entries accumulated during my teaching years. They come from a variety of sources from Steve Jobs to blueberries. Where can you find inspiration, outside this book?
Olya
We met in Boston’s North End, April 24th. In October 1986, my first day as a US-Soviet exchange teacher in School 185. She was the first student I noticed who recognized me. Later in our beloved teacher Raisa Vladimirovna’s, we met again. As I wrote in my book Behind the Red Veil: An American inside Gorbachev’s Russia, she was the “spindly” one in the class. During the lesson, I challenged her defense of being superstitious:
A spindly, tall, dark straight-hair girl with a prominent Roman nose, Olya who had rubbed her hands together with glee when she saw me in her school for the first time––shouted. “We are not superstitious in the Soviet Union! We do not believe such things!”
“Surely, Olya, you must be superstitious about something.”
“No I am not!” raising her voice. I looked at Raisa sitting in the back, who often chimed in, said nothing. I grabbed a piece of chalk and asked Olya if she had a favorite sport.
Her answer allowed me to pursue our conversation with unexpected results.
The Anxious Generation
Time flees faster than I imagine. I have just finished reading Jonathan Haidt’s “The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness.” It should be a seminal read for parents and teachers. It articulates the crisis our children are in from three-years-old through high school. His book centers around four major points: (1) No smartphones before high school; (2) No social media before 16; (3) Phone-free schools; (4) Far more unsupervised play and childhood independence.
Beginning in the 80s, Haidt explains, “play-based” childhood slowly became lost. Parental suspicion of possible harm to their children from the outside world lurked. Parents became more protective denying their children opportunities to explore their world through play on their own, as all mammals have throughout time.
At the same time around the early 2010s children were free to explore on their own the “phone-based” world of social media with smartphones in their hands accessing the internet––and with a front-facing camera. And along with Instagram, TikTok, et al. they now have millions of apps to choose from. Children navigate this virtual world as their own. And serious mental health crises have spiked.
So what can we do about this?
My Hope
It’s been way too long to reach out to my readers. I have been writing and traveling. Right now I have four manuscripts (all related) in process. I so want to find a way to penetrate the teacher-reader––and now thinking about writing for the general public. It has been fascinating process becoming a writer since leaving teaching for fifty years. I find the solitude in my study in San Miguel, Mexico, a haven for thinking. While I miss the energy and wisdom of students (mostly eighth graders), I can still see and hear them as I write.
Tunnel
- Welcome to the New Year. It’s been a while since we’ve been together. I entitle this entry “Tunnel,” because we’ve been in one for a long time. A tunnel, as one knows, has two openings, one to get in, the other to come out. I feel we’ve been in a tunnel for a long time. With the arrival of 2024, full of foreboding to be sure, I believe we will find our way out of the tunnel into the light where our best hopes may be realized. Is that really possible?
Conversation Classrooms
I am excited that my fifth book for teachers, Conversation Classrooms: A Profound Shift from delivery of information to Partnership (Rowman & Littlefield) will be out next month. It is the second edition of Teaching That Matters: Engaging Minds, Improving Schools. I was honored to be asked to make this revision. The new book is shorter, more concise, and has a better directed message. In creating partnerships with students thru conversation teachers see themselves on a bridge where they bring information to share that invites thinking, wondering, questioning, ideas, respect. Where mutual understanding is intrinsic, everyone free to express ideas, individuals having the right to speak, and everyone listens.
I don’t expect it to be a best seller, but I hope it has some impact. But if it changes the life of one teacher (as reportedly happened to a teacher, now in Spain, with my first book, Teaching from the Middle of the Room: Inviting Students to Learn), I will be grateful.
So, if my books are not best sellers, why do I persist in writing to teachers?
Looking Through the Fingers
It was November 1986. I was on holiday after teaching in Leningrad. I entered School 21 in Moscow on my own. I wandered up to the second floor, its door open. Students were talking and laughing—a girl playing a piano. Whoa, a piano being played in the middle of the morning in a Soviet school!
“I spied a tall young woman from across the room. I can still see her approaching with her pulled-back brown hair, blue sneakers, white rolled socks, stooped shoulders. Her twinkling eyes peered through pink-tinted myopic spectacles with ornate temples. With a broad grin, she limply shook my hand. “Good morning,” she said in a soft voice barely rising above the bedlam, “I’m Zoya Anatolyevna. Will you teach my children?”
Just like that. No assessment of who I was. Asking why I was there. She obviously knew I was a foreigner. In Moscow especially during Gorbachev may well have opened her to trust visitors. It was strange to feel this immediate trust. I did not question it.
Two years later she tells me that she and the director “looked through the fingers” (look but not see) to change Illya’s exam grade. Really?
Discrimination At Home
It’s 1968-69, my seventh year teaching social studies at Hanover Junior-Senior High in Hanover NH. The social studies curriculum, which had been updated, did not address covering issues as a school community, particularly the Vietnam War and racial discrimination. We were a privileged school isolated from society’s bigger issues. I decided to do something about it.
After holding two assemblies on the Vietnam War, one led by a Maryknoll priest who opposed the war, the other from a local veteran in support. Given their success, I proposed a three day symposium on racial discrimination to be held at the end of the first semester. It would feature the new NBC documentary, “One Nation Indivisible,” which focused on “white racism and black futility.” The plan was to show the film on the first day, followed by small discussion groups. Each group’s recorder wrote up notes that to be published in a magazine, “Discrimination: Mini-symposium for Seniors” to be distributed to participants the next day.
We regrouped on the third day with a panel of a professor, minister, parent, two students (one an inner-city student attending the school). The panel session was contentious, but not at all like what happened afterwards.
Green Jacket
It was the end of my first week teaching as a US-Soviet exchange teacher in Leningrad in October 1986. In my green jacket with its leather elbow patches I had been a billiard ball cued by curiosity moving with random abandon throughout the school. I taught English to five classes a day to four-hundred children from seven to seventeen each week; I arrived early and stayed late. City officials had said to teach only three classes, take one Russian class, and leave for the day.
I plunged into the life of the school. I found my way into the class collectives and into the private lives of a few teachers and brave students. We met after school, in cafés, on the street, and in parks. All the while, students were forming their impressions of this American in his green jacket.
Green jacket?
Each child is a drop of rain
Imagine you are an English teacher sitting in an auditorium with your fellow teachers in Leningrad, November, 1987. This American exchange teacher is at the podium. He’s been invited to speak by a city Educational Board supervisor. At the end of his short talk, he says:
“I implore you, then, to step off Moscow’s curriculum train and take time to listen to your students. You will be better for it. Each child is a drop of rain. Cherish each drop, love each drop. You should not simply listen to the storm.”
Why would he (it was I) say that? Because in my experience teaching two of Leningrad’s special English language schools, students, teachers, and directors were overwhelmed with the Party’s curricula that pushed and pushed. Lessons had no time for conversation, deliberation, discussing, arguing. When I had my turn with classes, the sense of relief was obvious. Students (all ages) jumped at the chance to engage in conversation. They loved it. I loved it.
So, what were Soviet lessons like?
A Teaching Life, the Next Step
For me it began in Hanover, NH, in the fall, 1962, when I was hired to be a teacher of ninth-grade European history and one class of seniors. I expected that as my fate for years to come. But in that year, a twist: Instead, I co-taught seniors with my department chairman and remarkable teacher and mentor, Delmar W. Goodwin. The next year, he had me teaching my my own course with eighth graders. By 1971, I’d also been a part-time administrator, entered a PhD program in elementary education, and taught in a progressive primary in Oxfordshire, England.
I returned to Hanover from England and was rehired (I resigned in 1969 to have money to go to graduate school). I taught a self-contained fifth grade employing the practices I learned in England. For the next six years I created an open classroom for fifth, then fifth-sixth, then sixth-seventh-eighth grades. The following ten years I returned to teaching social studies to eighth graders. From there, I taught English to Soviets and after eighth graders in a private school in Worcester, Massachusetts. My last iteration: teaching teachers for twelve years.
Then what?
Memory 1986
Now that I am in the last phase of my life, I am exploring my earlier years. Just today, I saw a picture taken in 1986 of a fellow US-Soviet exchange teacher and me sitting in a grand restaurant in Moscow. We are obviously in serious conversation about what I don't remember.
She and I were two Americans open and curious about a people in Churchill’s aphorism, “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside and enigma.” We were part of a larger contingent of teachers who had come at the behest of Mikhail Gorbachev, the last Communist wanting to be part of the larger world. We were there heeding his invitation. Why?
Ambassador Plenipotentiary of Peace, Love, and Friendship
It’s October 1986. I am the exchange teacher at Leningrad’s School Nº 185, my first Soviet school. It was a whirlwind ten weeks. So many wonderful moments. Teaching students seven-to-seventeen, hall monitoring, playing at breaks, drinking compote in the canteen, lunch with teachers, excursions, endless conversations, so many happenings after school.
And then this, what some 6th graders presented to me. Their 8” by 10” document had a banner across the top with the word ‘Credentials.’ Below in large black-ink handwriting:
‘The 6th graders of Leningrad school N 185 appoint Mr Thoms Ambassador Plenipotentiary of Peace, Love, and Friendship. Mr.Thoms is grated full diplomatic immunity to anything that stands between our two countries.’
It was signed by twenty 6th graders (!) from one of the English sections I taught.
This was one of many gestures I receievd toward our friendship. Each one touched my heart. Why did they happen?
The Partnership Classroom
Americans seem not to think. At least at least a large percentage. They appear not to know how. They prefer to parrot social media sites, other people’s thinking. Schools have to take their share of responsibility with their focus on teaching to tests rather than cultivating critical thinking.
It is true in the social studies, a field in which I spent 40 years. Its traditional methods have been based on delivering information to students sitting passively at desks and requiring regurgitation of the information on tests. Desks remain in rows. Textbook chapters dictate the curriculum. Many teachers talk most of the time. Students listen and take notes. Homework is assigned. We need to ask, What is happening in the students’ minds? What is happening in the teacher’s mind? Questions worth pondering.
In my second year of teaching, my department head offered me a way out of this paradigm. He moved me from a textbook-oriented-ninth-grade European history asking me design my own designed area studies course in the eighth grade. It focused on South America, South Africa, and Russia and the Soviet Union. My teaching since then has never been the same. What options do today’s teachers have? It’s conversation!
Gorbachev's Invitation
Russian Diary: I learn that Mikhail Gorbachev is summoning foreigners to visit his beloved country. I decide to come in October, 1985. My fellow travelers and I pass through customs at Leningrad’s Pulkovo 2 airport. A grandmotherly Russian greets us, “I am Nina, your Intourist guide.” She takes us to our bus what will be our daily home. We arrive at our international hotel. We eat a small meal prepared for us before bed. I am on Russian soil!
What compelled me to come? It began in the spring of 1964, the first of twenty-five years in Hanover, New Hampshire, teaching Marxism, Russian history and Soviet Communism with eighth graders. I challenged students to understand Marxism and Communism as legitimate ideologies; we role played a Soviet classroom complete with Pioneer uniforms and red scarves; read The Communist Manifesto; I set up Co-opoly on a Monopoly board in which students played to share, not to win; we digested in intimate detail George Orwell’s Animal Farm; assessed the Cold War threat of atomic and hydrogen bombs; absorbed large black-and-white images of Hiroshima victims with big keloids on their bodies; and viewed the films, “The Day After” and “Atomic Cafe.”
And…
My Oxfordshire Diary (2)
In my first entry for My Oxfordshire Diary (4/29/23), I shared about the the school, its head, Barrie Rodgers and a couple of our encounters in my diary. Being a teacher of 34 seven-to-ten-year-olds in which I was expected to tailor each their personal curriculum was a monumental challenge. But I chose to seek an English primary school to do just that. I was enamored of the idea of a child-centered education. But the practice proved challenging, more sometimes than others.
Our school, the Ducklington Lane School, later christened Queen’s Dyke County Primary School, was the first open-plan school in the county. My three colleagues and I had a magnificent shared space in which to teach.
We wanted our junior-department 160 children to do productive work. We set up centers for writing, science, reading, drama, clay, painting, drama, music; each of us would do movement with our groups in the dinning hall. We planned our ‘home bay’ times, each with our 30-plus children. We are each anticipating the challenge of dealing with a mix of children from the town and surrounding villages. We felt ready.
On our first day, 100 more students showed up!
On Del's Shoulders
We stand on the shoulders of others. We know that. Our parents shoulders were the first. If we were lucky they were there for us throughout their lives. In the last stage of my life (I turned 85 at the end of April) I find myself wondering who, if anyone, is standing on my shoulders and will after I leave.
Del Goodwin was my first department head, master teacher, mentor, colleague, friend. More than sixty years since we first met, my first year teaching in 1962, I stood on his shoulders––and still am.
Who was this man? Why do I revere him? And revere him knowing not only his distinctions but also his rumored flaws?
