Teaching in Arkansas                                                                              February 26, 2020

 

“What is 12 times 9?” the math teacher asked Johnny.

 

Since he didn’t know, he thought fast. “What do you think it is?” he asked

 

“I don’t think. I know.” responded the teacher.

 

“I don’t think I know, either.” Johnny evaded.

 

Sometimes it seemed to me a little battle was going on between teachers and students. We knew we were in school to learn. The teachers knew we were in their classroom to learn. So the battle was when do we learn. We just could not figure out why learning had to interfere with fun.

 

The educational system in Arkansas was a leader in the 48 states in education results. That is, if you started at the bottom working your way to the top. 

 

Since my public school education was in Arkansas, I didn’t know if I could take pride in any of my grades. 

 

I did take a little consolation in the question, “What do you call a physician who graduated at the very bottom of his class?”

 

Give up? “You call him Doctor.”

 

In those early years of my intellectual development, the object was to get promoted to the next grade. So I had pretty good success with the system. Nowadays, I understand that the idea is to promote by age, not by amount of knowledge. That would have made it much easier on me.

 

Actually, since I started kindergarten at age four and finished high school at age 18, going straight through four years of college and three years of seminary, I had a total 20 years of education by the time I was 25. I was tired. That explains the 30 year break before I got my Doctor of Ministry Degree. I recovered slowly.

 

In the process of accumulating the three “Rs”, I learned various and sundry other useful things, like philosophy, psychology, relationships, etc. 

 

My mother was a school teacher after she finished Ouachita Baptist College. My dad taught classes when he only had a high school diploma. I learned respect for my teachers very early.

 

“If your teacher punishes you, we’ll punish you again when you get home.” was explained to me almost from grade one. I knew my parents would take the teacher’s side on any problem. I don’t know of a time when my folks took my side over the teacher’s side. I’m not even sure I ever got to tell my side. The teacher was always right.

 

Now you have to understand that I seldom got into trouble with my teachers. Often they expected me to pay attention to them when a cardinal singing in a tree by the window was much more interesting. Sometimes they assigned homework for information and processes that I already knew so I didn’t see the need to complete it. The notes and whispers from friends were much more important than what the teacher was telling us again.

 

There were tasks that the teacher would assign to different students each day. The hand cranked pencil sharpener filled up with shavings and the teacher would call upon someone to empty it into the gray wastebasket. 

 

Emptying that wastebasket was another task. The lucky student would take the container to the end of the hall, open the janitor’s door and pour the contents into a bigger can.

 

The greatest was to get to dust the erasers. The chalk on the blackboard had to be removed with a soft eraser. By the middle of the day, that black tool had become white and was now failing to accomplish its task, leaving white streaks across the board. So the teacher would call upon someone to take the erasers outside, pound them together, creating a small snow storm. The student would return to the class with white covering them, but happy at the activity break it provided. 

 

Another problem I had with teachers was the way they would call upon someone to answer a question. Now, you would expect them to want to get the right answer to their questions. But that did not appear to be what they really wanted. 

 

The teacher would ask a question, then pause, looking around the room. If I didn’t know the answer, I’d look down at my desk, expecting the answer to reveal itself to my questioning eyes. I would fidget to get rid of the nervous energy. I’d take a few shallow breaths hoping to overcome the red creeping up my face. I’d steal a glance to see if anyone was raising his or her hand to provide the answer and be amazed that it looked like everyone in the room had his or her hand in the air. Surely she would call on one of them and get the answer she wanted.

 

But no. In spite of these revealing clues, the teacher would say, “Bob, what’s the answer?” To make it worse, we had to stand to give the answer. With every eye in the room turned on me, I would slowly rise to my trembling legs praying that an angel would fly to my shoulder with the clear whisper to the teacher’s inquisition. 

 

Amid a few giggles by the brainy students, I stuttered, “I don’t know,” or, worse, I gave the totally wrong answer and turned even redder and shorter of breath. The teacher would shake her head, mutter a low, “Tisk. Tisk.” and call on another victim.

 

Then there were times when I knew the answer. When the teacher began the scan around the room I sat up straight and raised my hand. How could she overlook me? Her eyes somehow missed my waving hand. I was almost standing, pumping my hand from my shoulder. In desperation, I raised both hands, and called out “Me. Me.” Her eyes searched every other student. Studying them intently and ignoring me, she called on someone who didn’t have a hand in the air but was intensely studying the top of his desk, fidgeting, breathing shallowly, and turning red. I slowly sank back into my seat, dreading the next question. 

 

In spite of that dehumanizing process, I still respected my teachers and I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted to please them and make them happy. So, at every opportunity, I sought their attention with my raised hand, saying, “Here I am.”

 

Isaiah 6:8 Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”