First job: miss wilson, teacher

‍       This is the second in our series on first jobs. For the previous installment, see here. Remember your first job? What was it like? How much did you make? How old were you? Let us know by writing to us at writingaboutourgeneration@gmail.com.

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      I thought I knew what I was doing the first day I stood in front of my 8th- and 9th-grade English classes. And eventually I did figure it out. But that day of teaching (which was also my 22nd birthday), I realized I needed to learn as much as my students. 

      I taught English at the only middle/high school in a rural county in the Virginia highlands. I’d interviewed for the job in my last semester at the University of Virginia, and accepted their job offer before graduation (rather than wait until the end of the summer when jobs in Charlottesville or northern Virginia might be offered). I’d never been west of the Blue Ridge Parkway and I didn’t know anyone in the town or the county, but at age 21, my sense of adventure prevailed. 

      As I settled into my first week, I learned that some of my students rode the bus for 30 miles on twisty, narrow roads. Some went home to help with farm work or animals. A good number were involved with athletic teams or other extracurriculars. And some had after-school jobs to help support their families. 

      I learned I needed to grab their attention right away.

      For many of my students, high school was the end of their formal education. So, when I assigned a book, I often read the first chapter aloud, hoping they might be intrigued enough to finish the next two or three chapters for homework. I made grammar exercises into team games. For Friday weekly writing assignments, I asked them to write about something important to them. Even trivial topics such as their favorite food or favorite sport were okay as long as they put words on the page. And after a while, some of the groaning stopped about the Friday writing. 

      I learned to be a better and sterner disciplinarian. Experienced teachers joked that they didn’t smile until Thanksgiving. Although I never really adopted the idea, I could appreciate the value of that old adage. 

      I am not the rebellious type, but I took issue with the gender-segregated teachers’ lounges that were typical of the time and place. The male lounge was right next-door to my classroom. The female lounge was downstairs, far away. Out of desperation, one day my neighboring female teacher and I decided to knock on the door of the male lounge and then enter and quickly use the facilities, which thankfully were located near the door. But I still remember the looks of horror and surprise on the guys’ faces.

      After discussions with the principal, we were finally allowed to use their facilities as needed. 

      A lot of what I learned back then was outside my classroom. In a small, southern rural town, teachers were often topics of interest and gossip. When I went to a Saturday night movie with a male friend, I heard about it all day on Monday. We all learned to be discreet.

      I quickly made friends with other new teachers in the county. There was little to do in the small town (no thank you, Holiday Inn bar) and we weren’t making much money ($7,800 annual salary!). We spent weekends going camping, biking, hiking or hanging out at one another’s apartments or group houses. Simple pleasures were the norm. 

      I taught there for two years, then moved back to northern Virginia. Last summer, after 50 years of being away, I reunited with several teachers who are still there, now retired. We had fun touring the county, which is beautiful, and laughing and reminiscing. The place hasn’t changed much. I made the right decision to leave, but I will always remember that simpler life with fondness.