Who even wears a hat?

Who was your favourite teacher, and least favourite, when you were at school? It’s an easy question to answer and doesn’t take long, regardless of how old you are and despite sometimes not being able to remember what to pick up from the supermarket. That’s because the impact of teachers is significant, and long lasting, regardless of whether it is positive or not.

One irony of this, particularly in this age of addiction to short term performance outputs, is that it’s highly unlikely you’d have any memory of the content or assessment, let alone the particular pedagogical methods employed, but the very human elements of schooling – relationships, affective memory, struggling to find a place in the world – are readily retrievable in a way that we sometimes wish we could replicate when we’re looking for the car keys.

What made your favourite teacher so memorable? Perhaps it was their witty style, their encyclopaedic knowledge and instant recall of a vast array of facts (mind you, for most 14-year-olds, just about anybody’s comparative knowledge could be thus described), or maybe it was they were just a little more eccentric than the rest of the vanilla on offer in other subjects.

Most likely, though, it was because there was something deeply human and relational at play, even if it didn’t seem so at the time. It seemed like, somehow, they were of a different calibre than some of the other teachers around.

One of my favourites arrived in my final year of high school. At the end of Year 11, we lost a most extraordinary teacher from our Modern History class. Mr Ryall was a warm, jovial, upbeat, and engaging teacher who had taken a pre-retirement appointment on the north coast of New South Wales. We were crushed as we stared down the barrel of a Higher School Certificate year without our beloved Mr Ryall; this new bloke, we collectively thought as our final academic year started, is on a hiding to nothing amongst our precocious band of upstarts.

Then in walked Doc. It was, among other things, my first introduction to an understanding that some people with a doctorate are definitely not the people from whom to seek medical advice (yes…that’s you too, mirror!). Half a decade before Robin Williams brought life to the boys at Welton Academy in Dead Poets Society, there was Doc.

He strode into class for our first lesson of the year, introduced himself, then invited us to the front of the room to play a game he’d brought in. What?!? A game??? Isn’t this the first week of our HSC year? Studying the causes of World War I? Is he kidding? Insulting us? Wasting our time?

And then, tentatively, suspiciously (except Reg who was always up for a lark), almost incredulously, we ventured forward. The game he’d brought in was Diplomacy, a strategy game based on conflicts of pre-war Europe and the Mediterranean. We eased into it, then became fascinated with plotting, scheming, and making and breaking temporary alliances to advance our own national interest. Without realising, we gained depth and insight about that pre-war tinderbox than we ever might have through summarising the first couple of chapters of the textbook. Genius!

And so, by term’s end, Doc had ascended to the same level of our collective reverence as we held for the departed Mr Ryall. And we told him so. Even more compelling than his ability to engage us was his humility: “thanks, I’m glad”, he blushed.

For the teacher you highly appreciated, perhaps even adored, did you ever let them know this? How? And if not, why not? 

Perhaps it wasn’t a special gift at the end of the year, but hopefully it was something like “thank you” at the end of a lesson or the term. “Have a nice holiday” is also a good start.

In the spirit of World Teachers Day, I wonder if you doffed your hat!

“Wait…what”, I hear you say. “I don’t wear a hat. And why would I do this even if I did?”

It’s a reasonable question young people might ask in a culture where few of us wear hats, and those who wear caps often do so for cultural reasons derivative more from various US sporting, music, or gang heritages.

At the risk of being bucketed on, it’s a weird gesture to invoke for such an important acknowledgement. It’s a very adult and culturally constituted expression that I wonder about how well our students would understand it; mind you, perhaps it’s opportunity to teach them about what it represents.

It is a sign intended to show respect for the one to whom the hat is doffed (and, yes, that’s an odd phrase to write), yet, at the same time, it comes from a gender-based recognition between two men; it was not a gesture common between women. It also has military connotations that were short-handed into the salute, particularly to one’s superiors.

On the upside, in the 19th and 20th centuries, it was commonplace and widely practiced. Now that is something our teachers deserve, rather than a one day a year gesture. It’s the same tone expressed by the More than thanks campaign for a pay rise led recently in New South Wales by the NSW Teachers’ Federation. Their central claim was that simply by saying “thanks” without addressing the practical needs of teachers, including remuneration, can be platitudinous at best or insulting at worst.

And recently, the Queensland government’s No excuse for school abuse campaign is heading in the same direction – a continual community culture characterised by respect, courtesy, and free from offensive and abusive behaviour. That’s worthy of support.

So, let’s make every day World Teachers’ Day!

Let’s continually seize opportunity to express appreciation to teachers for their outstanding work, commitment, patience, enthusiasm, grace, and hope. To all the Mr Ryalls, the Docs, the Miss Sautelles, the Mr Ogiers, the Mr Heaths, the Miss Wentzels, the Mrs Groves, and the Mr Symes across the world, we thank you.