If you’ve been reading here quite a fair bit, you might know that I make a living mostly out of teaching. I also take on screenwriting jobs on the side but despite the double profession, I often see myself as a teacher first. Today marks my seventh year teaching college-level courses in film and TV studies. While that may sound remarkable (largely due to the fact that I’m still considered ‘young-ish’ by my peers at work), I still have a lot to learn when it comes down to managing the classroom. A teacher should be the first to know that learning never ceases for as long as you exist.
This takes me back to the moment when I taught my first course. I was in my early twenties, all eager and hungry yet tremendously naïve. Most of my students at the time were the same age as me, if not older. I was hired partly because, for some unbelievably strange reason, the college had found great difficulties employing someone who could teach film theory. That was how I came into the picture since I sold myself as the ‘theoretical’ type they were looking for in the interview; furthermore, I needed a teaching job to sustain myself while in graduate school.
While the students came to class to learn something from me, I found them intimidating. In all nervousness, I became rigid, particularly with my assessments. I knew I couldn’t change my fresh-faced appearance yet I still craved their respect. Neurosis made me believe that they could see through my age (and judge my teachings for it) despite my best to hide them with a certain strictness. I went all balls and chains on them for the first two years or so.
The great news is that I eventually loosened up. This came with age, of course, and the turning point was gradual. I didn’t care anymore what they’d think of me or my delivery; I only wanted them to be off on their feet and fly over to greater things (i.e. pass my class and head over to the next). On better days, I could get carried away with hours in the classroom without feeling the least bit tired. But whenever I stumble upon a boulder, I’d ask myself if I wanted to become a stay-at-home wife and bake cupcakes instead. Whenever I reach boiling point, I’d ultimately try to remind myself what made me turn to teaching in the first place.
To be honest, I’d always— secretly— wanted to be one ever since I got into college. Part of what motivated me to attend my cinema and creative writing courses were some of my professors. I had the privilege to work under the most passionate people known to mankind. They introduced me to Sarah Kane’s morbid plays, inspired me to take on experimental writing in style of the Surrealist movement, recommended Battleship Potemkin to me as if it was an epic Star Wars movie and encouraged me to pay homage to Maya Deren’s Meshes of the Afternoon in production classes.
You’d be surprised that the best professors I had were the ones who actually chewed on my papers with gusto and spewed them right into the bin. My supervisor, whom I still remember with great fondness (and shall refer to him as Prof A here), told me to get off crystal meth before I start writing another draft for him to read. Before you get any ideas, I was never on anything and what he really meant was that my chapter stinks pretty badly. I went through my drafts, all hurt and heated, but later found out he was right: I sounded like I was under the influence whilst attempting to be Jack Kerouac, or some other beatnik writer, when arguing about psychoanalysis in films.
Prof A closely saw me through my writing process throughout that year, stayed up with me until wee hours to make sure I submitted a ‘mind-blowing’ thesis and told me, once again, to get off crystal meth as soon as the graduate school nightmare was over. I wrote about how indebted I felt towards him in my acknowledgment. The next thing I knew was that I had to edit the paragraph into a one-liner with a mere thank you. This was in respect to Prof A’s choice. He didn’t want that sort of credit, apparently. He later wrote me an e-mail, saying that I owe him coffee.
I had plenty of his kind teaching and offering me their honest feedback throughout my undergraduate career. They wouldn't be handing out As to just about anybody and that made me want to do better. Plus, they’d always make their job look easy. There was an instructor who I thought was so cool, so bohemian simply because he brought the whole class to his furniture-less apartment and discuss our writings over crates of Budweiser. His colleague, whom I took poetry classes, made us write our assignments in the local museum and had us practice constructive criticisms inside bustling cafes. There was another who’d be on call, all the time. If you’re stuck for ideas on your paper, he’d be waiting in the library even way past midnight.
Yes, the Library. That one place where our college professors seemed to hibernate in all semester. They also spoke in jargons, speckling their sentences so often with words like ‘discourse,’ ‘liminal’ and ‘problematize’ as effortlessly as we would with ‘awesome’ or ‘twerk’. They seemed only to be around when they had classes and vanished the moment you try to find them in their office (and they could get away by saying they were on sabbatical, doing some field research in the depths of an Alaskan town or collecting obscure ‘70s horror movies featuring Queen of Terror Suzanna in Indonesia). And somehow or rather, they all wore jeans. This led me into thinking that teaching was a cool job to have as you’re paid to talk about your most favorite topics or share whatever you’ve acquired from your latest reading while most of your peers are straddling with the 9-to-5 tedium. After several years of teaching, I’d say that my thoughts were mostly right…on the surface, that is.
Truth is, it’s not that easy. Many have told me that if you can’t do, teach. As someone who teaches for a living, I beg to differ. I may veer into banal territory here but really, to teach is to inspire. To inspire is a whole different ballgame than doing. To inspire takes a lot of experience, passion and sincerity among others. To inspire is to give birth to possibilities through others, much like what those professors gave to me. And that, in itself, takes a wild ride and a cross to bear. I’m still learning how to do just that— to give opportunities to my students, to free the reins and let them explore their skills/ self-worth and to put their needs first before yours without spoonfeeding their way to graduation. No doubt that these things can be tough to tackle.
But at the end of the day, I believe a handful of them will come knocking on your door, telling you about their good place in life and letting you know how much you’ve contributed to their success. And when that happens, you better be ready with those tissues. The tears are going to be worth it.
