A Good Teacher is Hard to Find by Matthew

A Good Teacher is Hard to Find by Matthew - July 2014 Scholarship Essay

I didn’t revel in the glory days of my middle school education as I do in high school—primarily because I was granted with an intelligent disposition that didn’t require a lot of interaction with middle school teachers. This all changed when I entered high school, when, tethered against the rock face of a continually changing public school system, I began to engage my teachers in not only the interests of my grades but also the interests of my inner sanctity. Teachers serve students not only for the mind’s sake but also for the person’s sake; in my educational career, the greatest beacon of this is my Spanish teacher, who for anonymity’s sake I’ll call Mr. H.

Aside from the same first names, Mr. H and I have hardly anything in common personably. As was evidenced by my class with him as a freshman and my class with him as a junior, he is boisterous, outgoing, humorous, an everyman character. He can relate to all persons in the classroom and deflect negative thought patterns from even the most powerful of intergalactic warheads. I, on the other hand, am an anxiety-fraught youth without many friends, without much ambition to strike out against the world, and without the ability to appeals to all demographics. In other words, Mr. H and I are quite different.

But in Spanish 2, something began to gel. I started improving my skills as a Spanish student remarkably (as I hadn’t done as well as I wished the year before) and started allocating absolutely more effort and energy to doing well for Mr. H. I don’t know why I did; I just felt the need to impress him. We were on good terms by the end of the year, and I was (inexplicably) to miss him as I continued with my Spanish career.

I had a different instructor for my sophomore year of high school in Spanish, but Mr. H still greeted me in the halls with his sprightly “hello!” I didn’t always get to respond, so whenever I was unable to I got to his classroom to apologize. Once again, I didn’t understand why I was so moved to ask for forgiveness.

And so my junior year moved around. I had one free period every other day; the first semester I spent in a classroom working on assignments, studying, etc. The second semester I was forced to change settings, so I began to work my way to Mr. H’s room eighth period. It was usually just the two of us in the room together. As suggested by my earlier descriptions, he was talkative, asking me about miscellanies to pass the time by.

As the semester wore on, he began to notice cracks in my façade. I had been undergoing therapy for anxiety conflictions; I was on an anti-depressant; girls, as per usual, were troubling me; my self-confidence was in the nether-regions of inferiority. One day, I made a self-disparaging comment; he asked me to come out into the hall. I followed, and he promptly relayed to me details regarding his bouts with depression, anxieties concerning his homosexuality, and drilled me on what I’m trying to do with myself, who I want to be, and what I should be doing to avoid the turmoil that he had experienced. In other words, he talked to me like we were members of trauma’s circle, and I believe, from that moment, a friendship was strengthened.

Now how does this meandering relate to positive influences on my academics? I’m getting there. You see, when you have a person who is pining for you, who you can relate to, who can be a friend in a near-friendless world, you’re motivated to please that person. That’s what happened to me. I strove for perfection on all tests and assignments that were proctored by Mr. H; I tried to be a good example of what studying can do for one’s comprehension of the language. Did I improve? By golly I did! I raced to the abilities of a Spanish conversationalist; I practiced (and of course still practice) Spanish with myself constantly; I discussed projects, assignments, and world events with Mr. H like I was a contemporary of his.

Near the end of the year we were tasked with creating a Spanish music video of a popular American song. I can’t sing—ask the showers’ bleeding ears. Feeling confident that day, I voiced my displeasure; Mr. H took my criticisms and said, “I respect your position…” Respect my position! What seventeen year-old ever has his position allayed with respect from a superior! With this respect I tried (and made a bit of a fool of myself) and did the project, giving an effort that otherwise would’ve been less energized and willing.

I’m to have Mr. H for Spanish again this year, and I’ll be traveling with him and others to Peru next April. I now realize that this essay isn’t just about academics; it’s about friendship in cold domains. But I’ve improved, and Mr. H had bolstered my love for Spanish; I’m going to try to minor in the language in college, and by this time next year I may be preparing to attend his alma mater. A good teacher is hard to find, but even harder is a good teacher who also is a good friend.