The Reluctant Teacher

I was a reluctant teacher. 

At first, like many children, I said I wanted to be a teacher, but had no clear idea what the job entailed.  It was just what I saw, day to day in school, from adults I (largely) respected.  Then I had an epiphany during my A-Level years.  I was working my socks off, nose to the grindstone, fingers to the bone, breaking my back, and all the other cliches.  I was going through this massive, transitional stage of my life, longing for the day when I could leave school behind me and find out who I could be somewhere else.  And then I realised that teachers lived through this every year - a constant cycle of teenage stresses, tantrums and hormonal breakdowns; same curriculum, same issues, same assignments, same same same same same.

Next, I counted the teachers in my family, past and present: 12 all told.  Wasn't there something different I could do instead?

So I ran a mile, and spent the next several years saying I would never teach.  (Repeat 'never' as many times as desired - I certainly did.)

But I couldn't deny that growing feeling that teaching had some unfinished business with me, or vice versa.  Not in a school, certainly, but what about language teaching?  I'd done some volunteer work, and found it... satisfying.  Fulfilling.  Intriguing. 

Damn.

So I gave it a try. 

Anyway, that's all history now.  I teach, therefore I am a teacher.  But please don't call me 'Teacher' - I'd far rather you used my name.