Teacher

My grandfather was possibly the best English Language and Literature teacher that existed. Ever. I don't say this because he was my family. I say this simply because it is the truth. Throngs of ex-students, spanning several decades, will drop everything and rush to verify it should I ask (that's the kind of loyalty he inspired). Under his tutelage you learned the nuances of this often frustrating, rule-breaking language; how to mould your own specific voice and, immerse yourself into a particular text you might be studying such that you'd be spouting references in every day conversation. No matter the roadblock, he would find a way to get into your brain and psyche. He would come to you at your level, with absolute humility, and approach you in the way that worked specifically for you. He got through each of his students in markedly different ways... speaking to them in the context of each individual's experience and understanding. Not only did he recognise that each person understands and communicates differently, but he also managed to get through each person at their unique wavelength.

I haven't met a single other person yet who has that gift.

We lost him last May. Gone, missed and never-to-be-forgotten. While he left behind a tremendous, painful gap, he lingers somehow. Not only did he leave behind bittersweet memories, but important lessons. Going to him to learn English was going to him to learn about life and the sort of human being you could and should be.

My memories of him were given another glorious layer when a few months ago I fell into teaching English a few hours a week. It took me some time to even take it up because of the great example I had had the privilege of learning under, and I knew I wouldn't even be half as good. However, I knew I would be earnest in my efforts, something that my grandfather understood was lacking in a lot of today's teachers.

In attempting to do what he did so effortlessly, every day, I grew more in awe of him. How did he do it? How did he get through to us? He was brilliant and passionate when he taught. I can still see him, eyes aglow and shaking his fist as he reads out the line "...fucking sissies? Queers?" when we were studying Tennessee Williams' 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. I think I went cross-eyed in shock. Understand, I had never, ever heard this soft-spoken man swear before. He had a different persona for every book. He commanded the classroom, and I am reminded of how utterly enthralled we were.

I, on the other hand, involuntarily whisper if I have to say "whore" or "sex" while teaching a book. Gulp. On top of that is the uncertainty of whether what I'm trying to convey has been assimilated by my student. There's no way my grandfather would have had such doubts. I remember reading Shakespeare's texts under his tutelage and it seeming easy. As I gulp my way through 'Othello' I've been coaxing my memory to remember some of his methods to adopt as my own. It hasn't worked so far.

There are certain small things that I know I learned unconsciously from him. His little double tick when you had made a particularly clever point. Or the glorious one-word sentence 'Beautiful.' in the margins for a well-expressed sentiment. This had to be his highest praise. You were elated if you found that written in his signature chicken scrawl on your page.

Without realising it, I found myself using the double ticks. It's when I wrote the first 'Beautiful.' that it hit me, with a quiet, lyrical joy: somehow, even though he is gone, I am being taught by my teacher.