When I started at the Tech in the early 80s, my very first memo from our formidable Head of Department, Margaret Baumann, read, ‘I don’t think the Board will agree to supply us with 47,241 long-arm staplers – will one do?’ Mortified. My first requisition form filled in wrong. But lesson learned – I never got the catalogue number and the amount mixed up ever again.
After 4 years’ teaching English at Faughan Valley, I was cock-a-hoop to have landed a post at North West College. Lecturing sounded so much more prestigious than teaching and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven as, even though I had night-classes, I also had blocks of free time during the day. To be fair, the evening sessions were a joy as the students there were older and well-motivated. The time flew with such groups and most nights some of us would fetch up at Andy Cole’s afterwards to continue the session, or not as the mood took us. At the other end of the job-satisfaction spectrum were the daytime teenage brickies and plumbers, painters and decorators, who considered it nothing short of hell to be subjected to a weekly session of Communications & Life Skills. Double hell when this was the last session of the day, as it usually was. Because the English Department ‘serviced’ Construction with this course, we were at that department’s mercy when it came to time-tabling and they gave us the graveyard shift when they could. Often. Bad enough to have fading youths straining at the leash to get home; worse when they couldn’t see the point of this stupid lesson anyway.
Letters to employers, application forms, CVs, interview role plays, grammar, spelling, punctuation – what a load of drivel. They knew – and we did too – that in those days most of them would drift effortlessly into working alongside brothers or fathers or uncles, or would be recommended for a job by Jimmy down the road. But we had to persevere and by God it was an uphill struggle. It was also a point of pride that you tried not to complain to their core lecturers about bad behavior, cursing, deliberately shoddy work, inane excuses for not being able to do something or the odd muttered threat. ‘Me Da’s in the RA and he’ll soon sort you out,’ was hurled over the shoulder by one guy whom I vainly tried to keep behind for defacing a desk.
One evening, frazzled after one of these sessions and in belligerent mood, I found myself driving through the Bogside. (I always hit the central-locking when I did this, more to pacify my husband than out of any concern for myself.) I pulled up at a red light, lit a cigarette and rolled the window down a little. Next thing, these two drinks of water wearing balaclavas and wielding guns are in front of me, motioning me to get out of the car. I’m still in classroom mode and, as they move to either side, I yell, ‘Get home to your mammies!’ (There may have been a swear word in there.) I put my foot to the floor and drove off, leaving them open-mouthed with arms the same length. It didn’t take long for the enormity of what I’ve done to sink in. I just remember my right leg beginning to jump like mad as the car kangarooed it home. ‘ Give them the car, give them the money, give them your bag’ – all drummed into me from an early age and all for nought.
I often wonder how many outside the teaching profession are aware of how poorly qualified some of us can be for some of the subjects we end up spouting on. Not as a general rule, you understand, but in times of emergency and the lack of anyone suitable to step up to the blackboard. (Not allowed to say that anymore. Mea culpa.) With mediocre ‘O’ levels in Irish, French and Geography, plus a fail in RE at Dip Ed level, I found myself teaching all of those subjects at various times in various schools. I’m not just talking about covering the odd class for someone off sick. I’m referring to maternity leaves or periods of secondment or even sudden death. Months could go by with someone like me keeping a page ahead of the class.
But the Tech presented the greatest challenge and what turned out to be the most fulfilling experience. After an urgent - and terrifying - summons to the principal’s office, Peter Gallagher went round the houses about team-work and all hands to the pump and how we all have hidden resources, before telling me that a night-class which was fully subscribed and due to begin the following evening was missing a lecturer. Can’t remember why. However, the upshot was that he was depending on me stepping into the breach and sure it would be no bother to a person of my calibre. And that’s how this woman, who just about knew how to build a fire, ended up teaching architecture. But that’s another story……………………………………..