Joyce Lee, Jim Lee on mon 12 may 97
Many years ago I was a student teacher working with a very special
Master Teacher in a very special program designed specifically to foster
creativity in young students who had been in the U. S. no longer than
six months. I was considered very fortunate because MY teacher was one
of 30 selected from a rumored 500 applicants and was known district-wide
(a very large district) for her own artistic abilities. Her classroom
was innovatively and colorfully decorated "by the students" with a
delightful topsy-turvy mixture of stylistic animals, pyramids, Mayan
sundials, Mexican monuments, jungle, mountain and desert scenes, all
intermingled with marvelous depictions of people from all cultures as
well as scenes from the children's new culture. Most impressive.
However, after one day in the classroom with the children, it soon
became apparent that the teacher had created and completed most of the
work, admonishing the children, however solicitously, that they
shouldn't "get dirty" because their moms didn't have facilities for
washing clothes. (Nice touch, huh?) I forgot to mention that, not only
were these children new to our culture and spoke limited English, they
all "tested gifted." (Not that that should matter in our attitudes
toward our students or toward our own children. Just a point I forgot
to mention.)
As new situations unfolded daily it was more than clear that this
teacher did not deserve the designation "Master Teacher." "Master
Artist," maybe, but not teacher. I saw bottom with no daylight apparent
when I was assigned to teach an egg-decorating lesson, a lesson where we
first blew out the contents of the eggs. The M.T. modeled two
decorated eggs, which was the first time I discovered that many students
simply try to copy the examples offered. My efforts during this lesson
were, of course, micromanaged with many frowns from the M.T. and a very
occasional flit of a smile. The students and I were having a whale of a
time which resulted in frowns. The brief smiles when it became obvious
that I was clearly not competition for her (or much of anybody else) in
the area of art. At the end of the lesson, the M.T. demonstrated an
"appropriate evaluation" process for such a lesson. Each child's egg
was GRADED in front of the class. GRADED! These were fourth graders in a
new country anxious to fit in and to please all authority. Especially
devestating for them. There were a few A's, a few B's, lots of C's, and
one F. F! This was the boy who, in my opinion, had used the most
creativity, with the final product that looked the least like the model
the M.T. had prepared. He had even incorporated, as I recall, bits of
broken shells in a most mystical style. F! Did he get tears in his eyes?
No, but I certainly did. Instead, he glared at both of us with intense
animosity, no, hatred, then walked to the teacher's private domain (her
desk), took some tissue paper and carefully wrapped his egg to take
home, returning with dignity to his seat. More power to him.
The semester was almost over so I completed it. I wanted a job. However,
I switched to a student teaching program with high school students even
though it meant that I'd have to stay in the program longer before being
credentialed. Pull that on adolescents and they'll make you wish you
hadn't! More power to them.
Joyce
Not nostalgic in the Mojave
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