Why I abandoned teaching

Glendon Hall Manor, Glendon College, York University, where my post-secondary education began

When I started university, some people asked, “What will you do with your degree? Teach?” They couldn’t conceive of any other reason to major in English. Nobody believed me when I said I just wanted to read books. I had no goal in mind.

I got my degree, and worked in offices for a while (and got fired, but that’s another story). Then I decided to go to graduate school. By the time I started my PhD, I was considering the possibility of teaching.

My first teaching job was a fluke. I’d sent applications to several Toronto community colleges, without much hope. Temp office work loomed when I got a call from the administrator of a college apprenticeship program. Could I substitute teach communications for six weeks? Yes, of course, I said. Could I start tomorrow? Umm, ah, yes, sure, I stuttered.

I was naïve. I thought my persuasive cover letter had worked (it sure wasn’t my experience-free résumé). Truth? As a colleague later revealed, I was the only one to answer the phone at 9 pm on a Sunday night.

The next day, I met the instructor I was replacing. He was taking the second half of the semester off. Course content was identical for all his classes: how unions work in Ontario, and writing memos and résumés.

I would teach three classes of apprentices: plumbers, glaziers, and bricklayers. All men. The outgoing instructor briefly introduced me to his classes: “Hey, guys, you’re getting a girl now! Behave yourselves.” Never saw him again after that.

At my first class with the plumbers, I asked what they wanted to learn. They begged me to ditch unions and résumés. As third-year apprentices, with future jobs already secured, they knew more about unions than I did, and they didn’t need résumés. They wanted to learn how to write reports and invoices. I spent the next two days cramming reports and invoices, and learned a lot about teaching from those plumbers. Most importantly, how to listen to my students.

I asked the bricklayers the same question. They didn’t have an answer. Like the plumbers, they were apprentices, not job seekers. This communications course was a program requirement. Agreeable but unmotivated, they struggled to write. So I taught them basic sentence structures.

The apprentice glaziers, also with future jobs lined up, were suspicious. Why was I asking them what to teach? I gave up on getting their input and started with report writing. I brought some samples to class, then asked them to write their own work-related reports. As we were reading these out loud and discussing improvements, one glazier, looking more and more enraged as the class went on, sprang out of his seat and roared, “What is this s**t? F**king Shakespeare?” Most of the class leapt out of their seats and started shouting as well.

Uh-oh, I thought. The end of my teaching career. Will they get violent? Where’s the nearest exit?

To my surprise, however, they were all shouting at the angry glazier. “Shut up, you a**hole! Show some respect! Stop swearing at the lady!” I’d obviously graduated from “the girl” I’d been introduced as, and it was ok to swear, just not at me.

This vocal defence of me by the majority set the tone for the rest of the course. They were respectful and, if not always enthusiastic, at least compliant. Even the angry glazier made progress.

University students I taught in subsequent years were less respectful. First-year engineers loudly objected to their grades and demanded rule books and shortcuts to improve them. While motivated, they were frustrated by the inconsistencies of the English language.

One tried to cheat, turning in an obviously plagiarized essay. I agonized for a week over what to say to him. Needlessly. Just asking him to stay after class proved enough. He confessed and apologized before I even opened my mouth. He got an F on the essay, and never did it again.

I was lucky. Mr. Fluffster has encountered far more cheating. He’s written about that in Dear Cheater, Tell Me Why?

The last English course I taught was mandatory for all first-year students. Unsurprisingly, they had a wide range of writing abilities. Some didn’t know enough English to pass. A few were repeating the course for the second or third time; frustrating for them and me. Most were unmotivated students who did just enough to scrape by, and vociferously disputed every mark below an A. I had no time or energy left to enjoy teaching the few who did well.

When I marked student essays, my fingers itched to fix the grammatical mistakes myself. Teaching helped me recognize that my calling was editing, not teaching others how to write.

At my PhD thesis defence, I listened while the academic panel argued about the shortcomings of my dissertation. I don’t remember any positive comments but was awarded the degree, so maybe I’ve just forgotten. 

As their voices rose and fell, I thought: I don’t like these people. And I don’t want to keep teaching.

That was when I decided to become an editor.