And as with his teaching career in general, the eventual status was somewhat ironic. For much of the time he was in the classroom, he was not among the most popular teachers. That distinction usually went to a younger, flashier set. My dad was in his late 30s when he first came to the town and was quiet and unassuming all the years he taught. He did not always get the best evaluations from administrators, either, and his teaching practices surely did not fit the ideal. He roamed the classroom, jingled change in his pocket, frequently told stories about his war experiences or his life during the depression, and threw out questions that sometimes had no answers or no “correct” answers. He demanded critical thinking. He would often veer from the textbook to lecture on topics like civil rights or bullying. He let students veer with him to debate topics of their choice—one day politics, another the existence of God. He did not take sides or pass judgment during these debates. He didn’t judge if students failed at a task or assignment, even though his expectations were high, and not just academically but in terms of behavior and demonstrating respect for each other. (Well, okay, he judged if someone did not treat others well, and he was not afraid to say so—quietly, but firmly.)
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