Educational Philosophy Paper

It is often said that we come into the world as a blank slate, a novel yet to be written, a symphony not yet conducted. If this is true, then it is our teachers who are the writers, the philosophers, the conductors of our lives from the very beginning. My education began in a very small elementary school in Douglasville, Georgia in 1978. It was a public school and we had just moved into town that fall. When I came into that first grade classroom to meet my teacher, Ms. Townsend, I remember feeling that I was somewhere very special.
Ms. Townsend was an older woman who made everyone in her class feel important. I got the feeling she had been teaching for a long time, loved her students, and would do whatever it took to get them to learn. When she divided us up into reading groups, Ms. Townsend did something that I will never forget. She let each child illustrate the stories that we read on our own, allowing us to use our imagination. It was really thrilling feeling like I had a hand in drawing the pictures that went with the latest book or story we were reading. It made me far more interested in stories, in writing, and got me to enjoy school. She always commented on how nice our pictures were and related them to the stories. Her teaching inspired creativity and fostered an interest in school that I have never forgotten. Another teacher that was inspiring and memorable was my third grade teacher, Mrs. Adams. She was in her last year of teaching and getting ready to retire, always saying that we were “her last great class”. Mrs. Adams encouraged all of us to write stories each day, which thrilled me as I have always loved to write. One day after reading a science fiction story I had turned in, she got the whole class to act it out like a play, with intermissions and everything. She was a great, inspiring teacher who used creativity daily and went far beyond a dull classroom routine.
It was in fourth grade that my teacher, Mrs. Watson, introduced me to C.S. Lewis’ “The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe”. Every afternoon, after we had finished our school work, she would pull out this book and read to us. I remember sitting fixated each day, my mind picturing all the words she was reading from that great story. I think all the students in class looked forward to those afternoons when we could find out what happened in “the next chapter”. I remember the rest of us wanting to read more good books after that, even getting our parents to go out and buy trilogies and novels. It opened up another world to me and it was about that time that I first thought about becoming a teacher. How wonderful it would be to guide young minds the way Mrs. Watson had. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, Mrs. Watson was getting us interested in books, in reading, and in using our imaginations. Out of all the lessons, the math problems, the exercises we did in her classroom, the thing that taught me the most that year was those afternoon readings.
In contrast to the exciting experiences of my elementary years, middle school was, for the most part, examples of how not to teach. In the sixth grade I had a number of teachers whose names I do not remember, and classrooms that were quite depressing. I went from a school with windows to “pods” with no windows, no real walls, and teachers who seemed interested in only giving tests and lecturing constantly. To make matters worse, we were now all confined to claustrophobic “rows” of desks, where you could barely come to the front of the room without stepping on other students’ book bags. I remember one teacher in particular made each of us stand up to explain to the class why we got such a negative grade on a test and how we would do it better next time. This was a humiliating way of handling this, particularly when kids are at an awkward age and concerned about how the world sees them. Though I’m sure some of my memories are clouded by the despair of saying goodbye to childhood, I can't help but look back in amazement that I remember not one of those teachers’ names. We remember the ones who touched our hearts and inspired our souls, all the others are simply window dressing.It was an amazing contrast, however, and one that left me realizing that there must have been better ways to set up and run a classroom.

All of these experiences have made me treasure those years of elementary school. This is the main reason I want to teach. I want to inspire creativity in young people and show them the joys I had in school. I believe that if children have a teacher that they know cares about them, they can be taught anything. If we do come into the world as a “blank slate”, it is up to those of us who have learned well to teach others just as well. Children deserve at least this much. Teachers pass this down to their students, improving a bit as they go of course, but always taking into account the point of view of the students in the classroom. Anyone can stand in front of a dimly lit room with no windows and lecture to unchangeable rows, but the one who gets those children involved in the learning process and creates a spark can do an amazing thing: they can perform magic.
The main goal I want to accomplish as a teacher is to create a sense of wonder in children. If a teacher can make a student want to reach further, to read more, to write more, to do well in school and look forward to the experience of actually going into the classroom each day, that teacher has excelled. This is not an easy task, but it can be done. The ideal is a classroom that respects each student as individuals, but is also able to bring them in as a group to want to learn more. It exists in the child who doesn’t know how to read, but loves to draw pictures. It flourishes in the students who write stories and act them out in front of the class, not realizing they’ve passed an English lesson. It resonates in the kids who sit quietly listening to a teacher who took time daily out of her busy schedule to read to them and interest them in books. Of course, it doesn’t stop there. It finally accomplishes itself when, years later, when much has been forgotten and changed, when the world is a very different place, that the child returns as a man with the same book of stories and an infinite span of time to read them.