Eternally An Amateur

Ten years

That’s how long it will take you to be a good teacher.

At least that’s what they claim.  They have this obsessive idea that one cannot be good at one’s job until one has grey hair, unsightly wrinkles and have put sufficient number of hours in.  They of course speak about the hoards of teachers who qualify every year without the faintest clue about imparting knowledge. 

Some of progress at a faster rate than most of the population; after all, being a Muslim woman, I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life working until the early hours.  Masculinising my life, face and mannerisms in an attempt to compete with my male contemporaries.  Personally, that’s not the life I envisaged for myself when I took the job; I’m good at what I do, thus this should be recognised. 

But no matter how good I am (all thanks to Allah) compared to others, or how humble I seem in front of them, or how long they have been working; ten, fifteen, twenty years dedicated to furthering themselves, treading on others, crushing the opposition with leather-clad feet to get to the top of the mountain, I will always be an amateur.  Their success measured in cups full of the blood of innocents is their prize, disguised in good intentions, masked by the sweet stench of accomplishment.  I cannot measure success in statistics, league tables, a number-crunching so alien to the profession to which I signed up; a creative, progressive, multi-faceted career, the business of saving lives with the power of language.  A piece of paper so powerful that it opens doors for all who possess it: The Holy Grail, the blessed holy water of a GCSE in English, a vital, life-giving force, delivering progenies of success to all who receive it. 

They claim to have the knowledge of this blessed entity, they even possess one themselves, but fail to remember the dedication of their creative teachers who made it possible for themto enter the realm of education, compose a sentence, write that application, the bone-crushing, damning sentence which condemned those beneath them in order for them to get to the top.  They’reindebted to these creative souls, who like present-day English teachers, inspire, against all odds, the desire to gain the Holy Grail.  Even those who hand in one hundred words for the coursework of their lives, finally, at some point recognise the urgency of such a precious booty.  In their pre-exam state, they create, re-create, attend and perform in every lesson, drawing upon reserves from the arduous winter and thus shaping their lessons, dictating the pace, rigour and performance of their humble teacher. 

Even these creative souls, possibly responsible for the monsters they may have created only ever claimed to be a guiding force, therefore can abstain from claiming any responsibility for their prodigious progeny who ruthlessly maintain they have more right to be at the top for the reason they have trodden on people for longer than those too demure, too polite to do so.  Chronology and not ability, determines success in this profession, overpowering and strangling creativity and passion.  They are not amateurs because they have been at it longer than others.   This illusive and illustrious it is still yet to be defined; is it the heartless business of teaching, coldly delivering a curriculum, which they speak of?  Or is it crushing those beneath them with their cheap patent leather lace-up shoes with the slight heel aiding them in their superiority?  The dissembling and distinguished it seems to have escaped me. 

I, on the other hand, will always be, and am proud to always be an amateur at what I do.  Practising everyday, not claiming perfection, striving for the ideal, experimenting and regurgitating practice everyday, each moment captured in the creative flux of the philosophy of teaching; imparting, prompting, inspiring. 

I will never be perfect and nothing more than an amateur. 

“We are all amateurs.  We don’t live long enough to be anything else.”  Charlie Chaplain – Limelight