My Irish English Teacher

When I was thirteen we got a new English teacher. He was Irish. He spoke with a Irish accent, a shortish man (or so I remember) always wearing a pin stripped suit, if somewhat rumpled, and white hair and beard.

I went to a Secondary Modern School which meant I had failed my 11 plus and also meant that basically not a lot was every expected of me academically. Most of the time we sort of looked at bits of writing and bit of literature and bits of poetry and it felt like we were never really expected to understand it, never expected to care.

This man tried to introduce us to good literature, he talked about Shakespeare and poetry and literature. He tried to educate us. Trouble was he was Irish. I never knew whether he came from Southern or Northern Ireland (my memory of his soft accent made me think he came from Southern Ireland) but at that time, with the political atmosphere of the IRA and terrorism and bombing in the UK - it didn't matter to me. I heard on the TV that we were at war with Ireland (well basically we were) , that they wanted to maime and kill us. My dad used to visit London sometimes and I was terrified he would get blown up by an Irish bomb. It was a frightened time and I wasn't old enough to understand or even try to understand Irish politics - certainly nothing I saw on TV tried to show me another side to the story. Also my father was a devoutly religious man, being a strong Church of England Protestant so I was very influenced by his prejudice of Catholicism and what that might represent.

My teacher never had a chance - I just argued, played up, called him terrible names and was totally uncooperative. This was not the norm for me, often I was a quiet child who kept my head down and tried to get through the day. Yet he tried to teach us stuff that I now wish I had listened too - I wish I had discovered them then, some I wish I know now.

He left after a few months - it's amazing he lasted that long - it must have been hell working in a Norfolk country school with uneducated, uneducatable kids who just didn't want to hear him.

I often think about him - I often regret that missed opportunity to learn. I wish I knew what happened to him or could even remember his name. I am sorry I was such an awful pupil. I hope he found a school where he could teach and pupils could learn from him.

He once told the class that we would never learn anything - that we deserved the education we got. Harsh but with him this was probably true. I am glad I have fought to recieve and education, worked hard and got to the age of 50 with a better understanding and a way of looking at both sides (well sometimes).

Wish I could tell him that.