A Teacher

We’ve all had that one school teacher that left an indelible mark. My math teacher was one of them. He had the sense of humor of a prison guard and the leniency of a drill sergeant. One minute late for class, and you’d be denied entry. One unguarded yawn, and you’d be pilloried in front of your classmates. Whether it was picking your nose, chatting with your neighbor or losing your gaze through the classroom window, each infraction met a sarcastic scold. 

And yet, despite its stern manners, he had a profound impact on me. He didn’t care whether you were good with numbers or even just interested in math. I was neither. What he wanted was to see hard work. He wanted to see effort. He was too old-school to let it transpire but the message encrypted in every one of his classes was that we were all equally capable. Not of mastering trigonometry. But of putting in the work and reaping the fruits of that labor in the form of decent grades. 

There was not a single class I worked harder for. Page after page, blackened with integrals, square brackets and Pis, I learned math the way gymnasts master the perfect leap: through repetition. Eventually, I developed muscle memory for it, treating math as movement rather than mental activity. A territory that logic couldn’t seem to conquer became familiar through intuition. 

It’s a trope that the best teachers are the ones who manage to instill passion for the subject they teach. What a narrow view of their role! My passion for math never came. But I learned that relentless practice makes up for a lack of natural ability. I learned that hard work is beautiful and rewarding for its own sake. Great teachers don’t confine themselves to teaching; they reveal secrets to us that transcend the ring-fenced perimeters of Chemistry, Literature, and Philosophy. Those lessons, unlike the rules of trigonometry, serve you for life.