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After filling out fifty applications, going through four interviews, and winning one offer. I took what I could get a teaching job in what I considered a distant wild area; western New Jersey. My characteristic optimism was alive only when I reminded myself that I would be doing what I had wanted to do since I was fourteen—teaching English.
School started I was teaching English. I worked hard, taking time off only to eat and sleep. And then there was my sixth grade class-seventeen boys and five girls who were only six years younger than me. I had a problem long before I knew it. I was struggling in my work as a young idealistic teacher. I wanted to make literature come alive and to promote a love for the written word. The students wanted to throw spitballs (纸团) and whisper dirty words in the back of the room.
In college I had been taught that a successful educator should ignore bad behavior. So I did, confident that, as the textbook had said, the bad behavior would disappear as I gave my students positive attention. It sounds reasonable, but the text evidently ignored the fact that humans, particularly teenagers, rarely seem reasonable. By the time my boss, who was also my task master (监工), known to be the strictest, most demanding, most quick to fire inexperienced teachers, came into the classroom to observe me, the students exhibited very little good behavior to praise.My boss sat in the back of the room. The boys in the class were making animal noises, hitting each otherwhile the girls filed (锉) their nails or read magazines. I just pretended it all wasn't happening, and went on lecturing and tried to ask some inspiring questions.
My boss, sitting in the back of the room, seemed to be growing bigger and bigger. After twenty minutes he left, silently. Visions of unemployment marched before my eyes. I felt mildly victorious that I got through the rest of class without crying, but at my next free period I had to face him.
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