This is story #55 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
55. Another School, Another Timetable, but with a Difference
Here I go again, walking into my new school, wondering what lies ahead of me. I was nervous, having slept poorly the night before, turning over in my mind all the things that might go wrong. It didn’t bode well that I was starting in April, I thought, rather than at the beginning of the school year in September, like just about everyone else. I kept telling myself that I was used to going to new schools, that I could handle this, just as I had in all those other schools I had attended over the years.
This time was different, though. I was no longer living in Rhodesia, and I wasn’t a student. I was the teacher, and I was entering a grammar school in Hampshire, UK, with a routine that I didn’t know. If I didn’t get it right that first day, a good lesson could be turned into mayhem by disenchanted students. I felt my heart pounding as I walked onto the school grounds, into the building, along the corridor and up the stairs to my classroom.
Then, the weirdest thing happened to me, something that I learned to expect over the years to come, no matter where the building or who I was about to teach. All my feelings of anxiety melted away the moment I walked into that classroom. It was incredible! My pent-up anxiety vanished. A calm air of friendly authority descended upon me, and everything in my body relaxed. I knew I was competent. I had a teaching plan, and I was going to teach these teenagers in a lively, entertaining way, so that they would enjoy my lessons. I was the leader, the facilitator, the expert, and I knew that my students would make excellent progress under my tuition.
Let’s begin, shall we?
And begin we did!
My work as a teacher was demanding, and I was exhausted more than not, because I put so much thought and effort into making each lesson meaningful, yet fun, too. I didn’t want to teach in a boring way. I loved being dramatic, arriving with different props and making the students both laugh and learn at the same time. I had a good sense of humour, so would laugh with the class, building on the unexpected things that happen in any classroom. I loved teaching with a passion, but it also wore me out. I was dropping on my feet by the end of the day and I still had lessons to prepare and student work to correct when I got home.
