A Letter of the young teacher to himself

I was standing down the hallway,
Thinking about my first day in school,
Children, teachers, loitering around,
The clock struck 7 in the morning and I
Felt the breeze up my spine,
Will my first day be fine
Will it be entwined
With all my memories flowing like wine;
Teaching, oh yes, is a calling like mine.

Pupils say teacher, teacher
Come here, the room is wide
Chairs by rows, tables in row
The chalkboard seemed blank
Waiting for my first stroke
Pupils awaiting for our first
Like birds chirping, eager, waiting
Testing? Perhaps but mostly waiting

My spine is at ease
When i heard them sing
Singing is good but for a teacher its frightening,
Will I be out of tune, out of touch, out of reach
Out of sanity, out of senility and out of brush
For as teacher, I paint like
A painter, whose painting is classic
Pastel there, watercolour here,
Pitch black here, oil on canvas there.

Teaching is like learning
We teach to learn
Pupils learn to teach,
They teach us to be children again
They remind us to be them
For we are struck in between
Whether to be children is to be teaching again
Or whether to be teaching is to be children again
Teaching is a calling, yes a mighty calling

Children are like birds chirping,
Far willing, determining, testing, observing, complaining
They have feelings, thinking and needs our mentoring
For they, like us, needs free-thinking
Sharing, bantering? – mostly sharing.



Wendell Glenn Cagape (2010 February 17)