Churchill was not through with me. Twenty-two years ago, I taught middle school “Humanities” for a year and a half at St. Andrew’s Episcopal School in JacksonMississippi: a big, bloated, harrumphing course for seventh graders that “featured,” in its syllabus, the first two ponderous volumes of Churchill’s four-volume History of the English-Speaking People. Yes, seventh graders, and yes, the designing headmaster was insane, or at least overly fond of his Princeton scarf: it all amounts to about the same.
The Churchillian prose did not run me off, nor did the kids, but after my 18 month sabbatical from practicing therapy, I thought I had indulged my English teacher pipedream sufficiently; time to move on down to New Orleans and get on with the rest of my psychotherapy career.
Eight years ago, I chunked therapy altogether. Soon to be father, I decided to channel my maternal/paternal instincts at home, and seek other gainful employ. Naive, metaphysical images of leaping into the Void, the universe will provide, blah blah blah. Well, either my Void had a different address than, say, Julia Cameron’s or Deepak Chopra’s or (fill in name of inordinately wealthy purveyor of meta-schlock), or I missed out on some key orientation concepts and/or equipment: is it possible that I needed a protractor or something, cuz my descent into the Void seemed awfully damned protracted.
But, let’s not moan overly much, okay? This is, after all, a celebration.
The last four years, teaching part-time at a career school gig that had wonderful students (and their instructor) laboring under an extravagantly boring curriculum – ranging from mildly amusing to inane (yes, not unlike, though with lesser pretentions, WC), I was at least blessed to realize that I truly love teaching.
My three readers will recall, no doubt, that said gig was on the verge of ending; occasioning, I feared, yet another dance with the Void with Julia Cameron in the background garishly smiling in Santa Fe garb to a disco beat. Or Chopra trying on Armani ties to an AfroHinduLatin beat. And, of course, I agonized much more than I actually LOOKED for work.
Well, I shall agonize no more. Mr. Churchill came to my rescue, and procured me a full-time English teaching gig at The Winston School here in good old SA, a lovely and tiny school dedicated to students with learning differences. Named after the former minister of state because he, too, had a learning disability – not to mention a fondness for writing inordinately long nonfiction.
I am delighted and excited.
