I Never Had An Effective English Teacher

It all started on the first day of class. Students had arrived, taken their seat, and were waiting for the professor to arrive. After twenty minutes a student claimed that if the professor did not arrive within the first fifteen minutes of class you could leave without penalty. Some students believed this claim and departed while others like myself decided to wait longer. After twenty minutes a “student” stood up and announced that he was the professor. He had long hair, a motorcycle jacket, and was dressed casually. I was shocked and skeptical but quickly realized that he was, in fact, the professor. I was shocked because I had created a single story in my mind of what a professor would look like and what social etiquette they would

As I got my nerve back I asked the boy who he was. He introduced himself as Burris Ewell. He wasn’t too bright. I asked him how to spell his name. But the imbecile couldn’t. I looked up my medical book to find how to get rid of cooties, before suggesting that he was to go home and wash his hair. Burris didn’t like my suggestion that the other students might catch them. He stood up and glared at me. Only then I saw how dirty he really was. He was in dire need for a bath. There was no way he was coming into my classroom again like that.

Lavenders’ ESL class, she decided that it was time for me to attend regular classes. I was so afraid, not because I would not be competent in the classes, but because I did not think I was ready for a full emergent in the language. I was competent and knowledgeable on the subjects assigned, Geography, Math, Science, but English? I was just completely in a mortified stage. Would I understand the teacher, classmates? Would I be able to speak clearly enough, so they would understand me? That weekend, before I was to report to my first all-English class on Monday, I did not sleep nor could I eat anything thinking about that moment. Monday morning I walked into Mr. Garfield English classroom. Mr. Garret was aware of me been assigned to his class; he was standing right at the door. When I came in, the first thing Mr. Garret did, was to ask the class to be quiet for a minute. He then proceeded to introduce me to them. I had never felt such a panic as I did at that moment. I was sweating, quivering; I felt a thousand eyes just staring at me. Mr. Garret quickly noticed my somber demeanor and immediately asked me to have a seat. I am sure he thought I was going to have a panic attack, and I’m not sure if I wouldn’t have if he did not step in quickly and asked me to have a

As I look back on my English 101 experience, I have come to the conclusion that I have learned many new things that have improved my abilities as a writer. I have learned some new techniques that have improved my ways of approaching an essay. I learned all about the rhetorical appeals and how to apply them in my writing and how to look for them in a essay written by a author. I have also learned how to argue both sides of a argument, and how to look for reliable sources and to properly quote and site the author of the essay. I feel as if I have become a better writer and my improved writing skills are shown within each essay.

The next day, as promised, she handed out a short pop quiz. It was not as challenging as she tried to make it sound. It presented only five multiple choice questions on it. Once we finished our quizzes, she told us to read the next chapter silently. Once I finished my quiz at the speed of light, I decided to finish other homework, since I preferred to read at home anyway. So while the rest of my class was reading, I worked on homework. Thirty minutes later, I completely finished all of my other assignments, so I decided to start reading the chapter. After nearly two paragraphs in, my teacher interrupted the class to see if everyone finished reading the chapter. Unknown to me, the chapter was fairly short and everyone, but me, finished it. Raising my hand slowly, I told her that I had not finished reading. Everyone in my class turned around and stared at me. The teacher asked me how far I was in the chapter and how much time I needed to

For some reason, I start the conversation every day, even though I know how it will end, maybe it’s because he is easy on the eyes. Unfortunately almost as often as my conversation, I am disgraced at for making small talk. I like all people do not like being impressed, and having happen in front of you know who, only makes it worse. As the teacher remarks on my “unfortunate” behavior, I can't help but notice my head lowers. Upon the completion of her speech I fight back tears. I sit, sloughing, ankles crossed, with my hands in my lap for what feels like hours, really only five minutes. Then, just as I begin the work, I hear “Fifteen more minutes!” I think to myself how did a hour long class come to only fifteen minutes, time fly when you're having fun, and this is not my kinda fun, then I think to myself I have no time for math problems I have thirteen more minutes. I rush to complete the assignment, unable to move on after I make a mistake, did I mention I also have OCD. To my amaze I complete the worksheet. As I leave the class I promise myself next class would be different. I told you how I have that conversation everyday, so we know how that works

I was hopeful that the day would be a success. It was the same routine in a new environment. Fortunately, my first day at Larned High School started like every first day before. The principal, Mr. Langdon, gathered all the students and welcomed us into a new school year. His speech filled the room with excitement and optimism for the new year. After the ground rules were set we set forth for our first class. I would never have realized the challenges I would face in Biology. My instructor, Miss Moser, started off the year with a stern no-nonsense policy. Fear swept over the room. For the first two weeks, I did not dare speak, and I did not wish to cause any trouble. As long as I did not say anything I could not be wrong. To start the class, we began reviewing what the class should already know. It was difficult to figure out what I needed to know because she had such high expectations for the class. After the longest hour of my life, the class was finally over. I bolted

He would come dressed like some of the characters from the novels we would read and would sing really bad if he thought he was losing our attention, he was also the first to teacher to give me my first F. “How did I fail, I’m good at this, what did I do wrong?” I thought to myself as I examined the red marks all over my paper. I assumed this was just the first class to challenge my reading and writing skills; surely, I’ll do better the next time. Although I was confident in my reading and writing capabilities, I still couldn’t show my parents this, I figured it was a freak incident and it wouldn’t happen

The principle comes through the back so he could talk to me, he takes me through the back door and puts me in my first period class.Immediately all the white students look at me and start yelling at me and are throwing everything in their possession.The principle comes threw the door outraged and starts yelling at the white students they quickly stop throwing things at me and I finally get my first day of learning.

The class itself was a nice course; descriptive lectures, peerless presentations, and topnotch films. Numerous amounts of essays, however, had my brain on the brink of destruction. A four page paper2 due every third Monday of every month; written about the novel we had just finished reading. To prepare for each essay, and reading of the novel, we needed to develop some basic grammar skills. A superfluous amount of words were written on the board before each book reading was about to start. One by one, my teacher, Mrs. Randazzo yelled out the definition, a couple synonyms and antonyms and wrapped it up with her catch phrase “write these down, they may be on a quiz *wink*”. The course was laid out to mirror the rules of prescriptive english. We were told to use correct forms of grammar, proper wording, and traditional sentence structure. Our textbook set the foundation we were suppose to build off of. My teacher made it very clear that once we entered the room, our ‘street’ language was of no importance and would not be answered. That style of reformation was atrocious. It made children hate her even more than they already had. Day after day there would be several unanswered questions due to lack of what David Foster Wallace would call, SWE (Standard Written English). Whilst she thought it was beneficial because it was teaching us to speak like educated human being instead of street rats, we children

In sixth, seventh, and eighth grade, I was blessed with a wonderful English teacher, Mr. Trucano. Many of my classmates felt he was strict and maybe a little OCD, but I felt different. Mr. Trucano developed his own system for teaching English. His system came every easy to me and brought enjoyment. I was learning college level English at sixth grade. For three years, I learned how to structure and edit sentences, create outlines, write papers and so much more. However, three years were not enough time for him to teach me everything there was to English. I discovered high school would not compare with Mr. Trucano since I had not learned anything new.

The day right from the start seemed like a good day so I went about smiling and walked blissfully to my normal seat next to my friends. We prepared for the coming classes that day. The deafening bell sounded and we were on our way to start the actual day. My classmates and I walked joyfully through the hallways, joking and laughing before reaching our first period destination. I made my way to the front of the classroom and sat down. The air was crisp so I took out my jacket and put it on. Our teacher walked in a few minutes late and started to take attendance. The whole classroom focused on him. After he finished taking attendance, he slowly reached down into a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. I stared in disbelief. The stack of papers he pulled out was actually a pop-test. I took the pop-test trying to recall everything that we had learned over the course of two weeks. I focused on the test for most of the class period and finally turned it in. The morning weather seemed to just be a ruse. This was not a blissful or good day; it took a turn for the worst. I sat there in the chilling room trying to think of something else to keep

What can I say, I am shocked that I have made it this far. With so much going on at work, home and college. I fell behind the first two weeks, because I was questioning why am, doing English I hate it so much. I thought to myself let me push the English class until the end. There is no way I will catch up with the course work. Talk to my wife, and she is a writing genius. She said babe you can do this, how are you so good at math, and hate English. So I buckled down, cannot let the wife see me sweat. Funning thing is once I start reading all the weekly assignments and instruction there, everything started to make sense. I found all my weakness in my writing one of my main issue being Slang/Jargon. One item I can put in my tool box is the writing

Suddenly, there was a hush in the room. The teacher had asked someone a question! I tried to seem casual as I glanced up to see if I was the unlucky person who had been called upon. My heart jumped and then I realized that the teacher was looking at the person to my right, waiting expectantly for an answer. I stared at the girl also, as if I was truly interested in whatever ramblings might come out of her mouth about the dead general and his battle. I felt my face grow warm with a slight blush as I became embarrassed for her and her inability to answer the question. She must have been paying as much attention to the lecture as I had been. Finally, she was able to formulate a less than mediocre answer that satisfied the monotone voice at the front of the room and the lecture resumed. Another glance back at the girl and I saw the cell phone palmed in her left hand down by her side. She had been text-messaging someone instead of paying attention!

During my high school years, there were several teachers that I encountered. However, there was one teacher whom I shall never forget. In fact, he would be very difficult to forget, even if he were only remembered for his size, for he was an enormous man. His name is Anthony Sweeney of “Sugar Butty” my third form math teacher. To this point, I never knew the exact reason for such name but all students referred to him in such manner. He was six feet five inches tall and towered over us like a giant and he weighed over three hundred pounds. I never discovered his exact age, but, he must have been no more than forty, even though his hair had turned grey relatively early on, and there was a smooth shiny bald patch on the crown of his head. But, it is not just for his size that I remembered him. In fact, one of the things with I remembered distinctively was his sudden change in temper. One moment he would be very jovial and pleasant to speak to in class, and the next he would shout violently at some timid student who was merely looking through the window or he would become very mean and impatient with his students. For these reason, he became my absolute worst teacher.