A good day

In the mid-seventies I finished my university studies, the next step was to get a job, which in my area was quite simple. I had studied teaching and at that time there were almost no certified teachers in the country, only three out of ten of us had a university degree.

That shortage of graduate teachers was much greater in the small towns, where sometimes there was not a single teacher who was at least studying. That is why the Ministry of Education offered the most jobs in those villages.

Since I needed to work, I didn't think much about it and applied for a job in a high school in a small town in the center of the country, located about one hundred and twenty kilometers from Caracas, the capital, where I had lived all my life.

Life in the town was simple, the people were friendly and very respectful, and they were very appreciative of their children's teachers. In general, this change of environment from the city to the rural environment was very pleasant for me.

But in the high school where I worked it was different, things were not so good for me there.

I was the youngest teacher, I had just turned twenty-one, and only the director and I had a university degree. Perhaps that is why there was some suspicion among my colleagues, most of whom were well into their forties.

They found my way of being very irreverent. They liked almost nothing about me. They strongly criticized me for my long hair and my clothes. Unlike them, who preferred a tie and a suit, I dressed casually, in simple T-shirts and blue jeans.

They also did not understand my teaching methods. I had been trained in a pedagogical school that considered it important to get close to the student, to take them into account as a person, and to try to use their previous knowledge as a bridge to move on to the new.

For me it was important that the students had confidence in me, only in that way could I find the way to guide them in their personal growth. But my colleagues found it difficult to understand these methods. For them, the important thing was to maintain discipline, and they thought that the best way to achieve this was to interact as little as possible with the boys.

The Director was a middle-aged man, with a rather old-fashioned concept of teaching, with very rigid positions and who relied on punishment and fear as the best way to run an educational institution.

Most of the time he would make negative remarks to me. He would suggest that I cut my hair, invite me to wear a popsicle, and question my teaching. I would look at him with respect and invite him to talk to me about new methods. But he felt he had nothing to learn from a boy like me.

I found the tense atmosphere quite unpleasant. I was concentrating on my classes, on working with the students. It gave me great satisfaction to accompany them in their learning process.

On one occasion, the Director summoned me to a meeting to discuss a proposal to change the curricula; a supervisor from the Ministry of Education was present. The conversation was more pleasant than usual and I was able to express my views with the utmost sincerity.

In the middle of the conversation the Director asked us if we wanted coffee, we answered in the affirmative. He went to a table and poured three cups from a green thermos. The cups were very nice, of a very shiny brown ceramic...

As he approached he tripped over something and went flat on his face, fell hard, the cups spilled their liquid all over us and crashed to the floor. An ugly dark stain appeared on my white shirt and on the supervisor's beige one...

The Director stood up hurriedly, shame filling his face, the arrogance had fled from his face. He apologized to us, closed the meeting and we said goodbye...

From that day on, the Director changed his treatment towards me, he became kinder and even paid attention to the things I suggested. Maybe having had that mishap helped him to think that he was as human as the others...

Thank you for your time.

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Translated with DeepL.com (free version)

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