University of Alberta Calgary - Evergreen and Gold Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

Page 32 text:

£ jL2Suyiee i Qold AND SO TO TEACH .... Ah! Practice teaching, that ' s the rub! What bitter sweet memories the very words arouse. I shall never forget the first lesson I taught. I remember I was up early that morning so that I might arrive at school in time to put work on the board. When I arrived it was a quarter to nine and I ran straight to the board and began to write. Ah! Too late! The bell rang and I was only half through what I had to write; and what I had written was only half legible. Never mind, encouraged the teacher, you may finish writing your exercise on the board while the class is doing the spelling lesson. At last I was finished and took my seat. But when I got to my seat I realized that even I couldn ' t read what was written. There was no other way—I had to rewrite it. And so I did. The few snickers that escaped the class on my return trip unnerved me even more. The long hours of waiting. Then the fatal moment— Alright Mr. Woods, will you take over the class now? I wanted to say that I would rather not—but I lacked the courage of my conviction. Again I made my way to the front of the class and fumbled for a proper way to address them. Children? No they might be insulted. Ladies and gentlemen? No, much too formal—that would immediately raise a barrier between me and the class. Guys and gals? Ah, that ' s nice and informal— but then it might raise a barrier between me and the teacher which I thought even more disastrous. After a long and embarassing pause I began by not addressing them at all. Now came the test. I asked one of the children to read to the class what I had written on the board. Why did I choose one so far back? Why did he have to be such a poor reader? After much stumbling, and with what little assistance I could offer, it was finally read—fifteen minutes of my half hour gone already? The long and laborious reading had not done much good. The class had lost what little continuity the piece contained— there was no way out; the thing should be read again. Should I read it myself to save time, and thereby break practically all the tenets of progres¬ sive education, or let someone from the class read it and most certainly lose the rest of my period? What a dilemma! The conflict was unresolv- able so I proceeded without a second reading. The class was really very nice and managed to pull me out of most of my pitfalls. The lesson hovered on the line. Every time it inclined toward failure, the class, by Herculean efforts, pulled it back towards suc¬ cess. The bell rang—my lesson was through, though not nearly finished. I cannot say that I was glad to hear the bell for I was warming up to the situation and had accomplished so little. However, the teacher was every bit as nice and as helpful as his class (every class reflects the attitude of its teacher.) He suggested, explained, and, in general gave me encourage¬ ment. I immediately forgot how little I had done, thinking only of how much I was going to do. My first lesson. My first failure. My first hopes of success. ROBIN WOODS, Class A . Page Thirty

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R.G.STANGER £.L.SIEMENS B.R.SABEY R.A.SCHAUFELE F.O. WALLACE M -I STRINGHAM G.THIESSEN J.G.THOMPSON H.THOMASSEN A. WORKMAN D. C WILLOWS R.G. WOODS A.N. WILSON A. WOLTER M. WALLIN 1 V D T.N.WEIR E.R. WATERS N.B.WEIR

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Zvesuyieett Qol Class EC Ah, yes, the joys of a class without boys— The hustle, the bustle, the fun; The laughing and fooling along with the schooling, Our joy when our classes were done; The rushing of lasses to go to their classes After that daily cat session; The last minute cram for mid-term exam; The joy at a sign of progression. The terrible worry, delirious hurry, Of getting a guy for the Ball, The searching for chances to trade off your dances With someone who ' s handsome and tall; Ah, the cutting of capers, ignoring term papers ' Till the night before they were due; And refusing that date lest your paper be late, When you ' re not sure what you were to do. And the terrible fear that came three times a year, When practice teaching came nigh The fear you won ' t pass, that you can ' t teach a class And a voice that inside you says, Try. And those noon hour walks, with those girl to girl talks Confiding your secrets and dreams Sharing your fear of your chosen career, For how difficult sometimes it seems; All these we ' ll hold dear memories of a year Filled with joy—and with friends we have met For when this sweet year ends and we part from our friends There are many we ' ll never forget. But our training ' s not done, it has only begun And no one can teach us as Life; And the future ' s not clear in our chosen career Of teacher or writer or wife. But when exams are passed, and we graduate at last We shall try very hard not to cry, And we ' ll blink back the tears and smother our fears And sigh softly, Dear Class B, Goodbye . JEAN MILNE. Page Thirty-one