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So much pleasure can be found in stories – either from the page or from sitting curled-up in front of a storyteller. But as Gerrie Mackey explains, having the right teacher or caregiver around to help unlock this pleasure can be critical.
Elizabeth Mansutti, a poet, storyteller and teacher made us laugh, cry and listen in an address that lasted an hour and seemed just a few minutes.
The occasion was a conference some time ago, called Rejoicing in literacy: Voices in Australia. I had come as an ESL/resource teacher to learn more about assessment, reporting and new literacy programs and ideas. Elizabeth Mansutti, the last speaker, spoke of none of these matters specifically, yet somehow put them all in proportion for me.
She recounted her teaching experience with difficult adolescent students. In an effort to make some contact with these cynical, hard-living students, she put away the books and told them a story. Her version of The Ugly Duckling led to their stories, both written and oral.
I was reminded of the storyteller teacher who saved my own education. The power of the teacher.
My mother was always proud of the fact that I could read before I went to school. We read books together, over and over, until I could turn the pages in all the right places.
Yet, from school, I have no memory of reading. Instead my most vivid memory is this: I had just finished a spelling and reading test. I was sitting in a hot, stuffy little room, just off my classroom. The principal sat in front of me. It was rare to be interviewed by the principal, but my performance obviously warranted being spoken to directly.
‘Do you know,' her voice is easy to remember, ‘you are two years behind in reading?'
No, I didn't know.
Her next question was: ‘What are you going to do about it?'
Even in my confusion and shame a little voice told me that she should be able to answer that question better than I.
What happened to me between the ages of four and eight? I went to school. We sat on hard seats, we recited written work and tables from the blackboard. The days were long and boring. I couldn't wait to get into the playground. I loved to talk, laugh, tell jokes. The teacher would say: ‘Empty vessels make the most noise!' As I was always making the most noise, I had to be an empty vessel. Everyone knew that; the class knew that; I knew that. The power of the teacher.
By the time I went to high school, my reading had improved through my natural love of books. But my confidence had not improved. I was terrified of reading in class, and I generally avoided offering opinions. I was an underachiever.
In my last year of high school, I changed from my high school in Zimbabwe to a tutorial college in Cape Town.
A tiny brown-eyed woman of about fifty introduced herself as Mrs O'Brien, our English and history teacher. She began by giving us a test. My heart sank. I looked blankly at the sheet: there was barely one question I could answer. I received my usual low mark. Mrs O'Brien didn't say a word. Instead, she launched into poetry. She began with The man from Snowy River.
As she read and talked, the class was transfixed. Although I had not been to Australia, I could see the horses charging over the gullies and through the rivers and past the stringy-barks. Clancy's gnarled Australian face was easily transformed into our African classroom.
When I eventually came to Australia, I immediately recognised the landscape that Mrs O'Brien had so easily portrayed through her reading of that poem.
She taught us South African history. Everything came alive, the Voertrekkers, the Zulus, the massacres, the peace treaties. I was mesmerised. My first assignment received a poor mark, and one word underneath it, ‘condoned'. I had to look it up in the dictionary, and it said, ‘forgive, overlook'.
I began to relax and enjoy Mrs O'Brien's classes. Instead of worrying about my performance, I listened and learnt. Mrs O'Brien didn't have to condone my next assignment, or the next. My grades improved until I received a distinction at the end of the year. Her confidence in me had a domino effect on my other subjects, and I did well enough to get into university. The power of Mrs O'Brien.
I suppose Elizabeth Mansutti and Mrs O'Brien are a relatively rare species. They have the talent of being able to transfer knowledge through storytelling. They are also confident and secure within themselves and they trust their instincts with their students. Although most teachers and parents could not aspire to the same status in storytelling, it seems to me we often miss the wood for the trees.
Teachers, and parents, have fantastic resources available today, to help us teach children. Computer programs, videos, lavish coloured picture and text books.
Unfortunately, many of these tools enable us to remain distant from children. A child may find it hard to take risks with a teacher or parent who seems ‘unreachable'.
In their Stories in the classroom, Bob Barton and David Booth say that ‘sharing stories with children allows them to enter worlds of past, present and future, to experience life through the ear, and to absorb print in an interesting, non-threatening significant manner. Listening to stories told or read aloud gives children their future in reading.'
As a teacher I have found oral storytelling to be a magnetic teaching tool. The act of telling the story can be so relaxing for teacher and students, for it is as true now, as it was long ago that ‘once upon a time' means the room becomes quiet, everyone draws closer to the fire, and the magic begins.
The power of the story. The power of the teacher.
Gerrie Mackey
www.gerriemackey.com
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Last Updated ( Tuesday, 05 June 2007 )
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