How I Stumbled into Teaching
I floundered badly. I belonged to a whacky church that was cult-like at worst and off-centre at best. It affected many decisions, behaviours and attitudes. We thought we were special which, by definition, made us not special; it just made us arrogant. We were discouraged from higher education. I spun out after a year and a half of studying Math and Business at university because, well, I was good at Math, but what was I supposed to do with Math? Business?
I married young. We lasted a year. My wife had had enough of her twenty-one-year old, hubris-rich husband and their off kilter church; so one day she up and left, leaving literally just the dog and a few sundry items behind (which her father later collected).
In my mid-twenties, after working as a food and beverage controller at the Canadian Pacific Skylon Tower, I realized a few things: I hated my job. I was still young. I loved literature. I loved being in charge of a boys and girls club. I liked working with kids. It felt like a totally natural fit.
At the time, I was still living in the semi-detached home my ex and I had owned. I was living with four other young men. It was on Harmony Avenue in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. I was referred to as the Slum Lord; the borders and I were affectionately known as the Harmony Institute for Wayward Men.
With the barely necessary income that this brought in, I took the leap: I quit my job and went back to university to study literature with an end game of a BA and eventual teachers college certificate.
Several things happened over the course of the next few years. Firstly, it’s important to note that while I was still legally married – divorces took three years to finalize back in the day – and I was religious enough that I refused to date. So my sole focus was school. The bi-products were that I was finding out who I was and who I was not. The latter strongly connected to the aforementioned church I belonged to.
I remember that in 1984, my brother and I took a road trip out east. We visited all the maritime provinces minus Newfoundland and Labrador. Distance from my cocooned life in Niagara made me realize that I could move away and not miss it. Actually, I thought I could move away and be better for it…
After completing my BA in literature, I applied to teachers colleges. I applied, if memory serves, to the local one, Brock University which is in St. Catharines, Ontario; Nippising which is in North Bay, Ontario; and one other I don’t recall.
I didn't get in. At the time, it was all about marks and mine weren’t very good. Specifically, my marks from my first two years were terrible; and my marks from when I returned were quite good. But my transcript wore my lost early twenties in shameful black and white that I carried with me like a scarlet letter.
After not getting in, I decided I would be a poet, take odd jobs and try again the following year. I sent my poetry off to various publications. Got published once. Won one contest. And all the while I worked at a chicken slaughtering factory my first summer, and at General Motors my second summer, during which time I acquired a pipe and tobacco because that’s what writers did. During the year, I roofed, did grunt work for a construction company and cleaned restaurant grease ducts. Year two approached.1986. I applied for the 1986-87 teachers college year. I did not get in again or so I thought. A friend approached me and proposed, “You like to cook, right? And I have a business degree. Pardon my Garden on Lundy’s Lane is for sale. Do you want to partner up?” I thought about it for a few days. I flashed back to my time at the Skylon Tower and recalled how stressed and unhappy most restaurant employees seemed. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I redoubled my efforts to become a teacher. I applied to master's programs. I thought… Masters then PhD then University professor… that could work, no? But again, my marks were my undoing. No one wanted me for a master's program.
Then one day, I had a brain wave. I called Brock and asked to talk to their teachers admissions department. I wanted to know how close I was to getting in. They said, “No, we can’t let you know that.”
I said, “Please?”
She said, “No. Sorry…”
I said, with all the charm and pathos I could muster, “Please? Pretty please? I’ve been trying for two years and I love kids. For me, teaching would be a vocation, not a job. I have experience working with children that’s worth more than marks… Please? Pretty please? Can you at least tell me if I’m close or if I need to join the foreign legion or become a monk…”
She said, “Well, I’m not supposed to tell you, but you’re not that far off… you’re number twenty on the list.”
"That’s not far off!?” I said. “Twenty seems pretty far off…”
She explained, “Some of these names on the list in front of you will choose another teacher’s college; some will change their minds entirely; so yes, twenty is not that far away.”
Charm and pathos, charm and pathos: “Thank you so very much for your time – may I have the pleasure of knowing with whom I’m speaking?” (my grammar at the time was impeccable due to all the classic literature I’d been reading).
“Robin.”
“Thank you, Robin. I really appreciate this!”
“You’re welcome, Rocco.”
This conversation happened in Winter of 1986. By the time Spring of 1986 rolled around, the euphoria from my phone conversation had worn off and I had become sad and pessimistic again. Cleaning restaurant grease ducts and writing poetry that no one was interested in reading wasn’t helping.
And then my indignation at the unfairness of it all set me off: marks! It’s not just about marks! So they let in these geniuses who don’t even necessarily like kids and who might suck at teaching… marks shmarks! Pfft!
Indignation gave way to an idea: The president of the university needs to find out about this! So I called and asked to speak to the president. To my surprise, they called my bluff. They set up an appointment for me.
In short, the president was very nice. He saw my point. He agreed; he said that teachers colleges were looking at making marks and experience a 60-40% split criteria-wise, instead of a 100% marks. In fact, he said, some teachers colleges have already started to go down this route. “Hopefully, next year this will be in place.” I walked away both elated that the president of Brock University would listen to me and agree and sad that I’d be looking at yet another year with no assurances.
What to do? Get travel books from the public library and plan a trip to Europe. Teacher’s college was not looking likely. Back-packing through Europe…that could be cool, right?
Train passes, destinations, food, hostels – it was all starting to come together and the prospect was mostly exciting, but the niggling in the back of my mind persisted. Europe is nice, but the whole time you’re tramping through Italy and Greece, you’ll be weighed down with, Eiffel tower, cool! But what are you going to do with the rest of your life?
And then, amidst my Europe planning and middle of the night, pressure washing grease and filth out of restaurant grill hoods, I thought: Robin! I’ll call Robin again!
This was early September 1986. The week before teacher’s college was supposed to start. It was a Monday. “Hello, my name is Rocco Maiolo and I’ve applied to the Brock Teachers College yadda yadda yadda, and I’m wondering if you could tell me where I am on the waiting list. The last time I spoke to someone… is this Robin?”
“Yes, this is Robin.”
“Oh, Robin, hello. Thank you, Robin. The last time we spoke, you were kind enough to break protocol and tell me that I was twentieth on the list. Well, I’m just wondering: can you tell me where I am on the list now?”
“Just give me a moment and I’ll look it up… Good news; you’re third on the list.”
Pause. Third is good news? Reading my mind, Robin continued, “You never know. We haven’t been able to get a hold of the two who are ahead of you. Anything is possible. They may have accepted elsewhere or they may have changed their minds.”
True true. Stay positive. “Thank you, Robin, I really appreciate this. Can I call you at the end of the week?”
“Certainly.”
And so I did. “Hello, Robin, it’s me again, Rocco –”
“Yes, Rocco, funny thing: I was just looking at the admissions when you called and you are now number two on the list. One person was accepted elsewhere, and we haven’t been able to contact the other person.”
So close!
“Tell you what, Rocco: why don’t you call back later this afternoon. If we haven’t got hold of this applicant by then, you’re in.”
Those were a few of the longest hours of my life. I called Robin that Friday afternoon and she said, “Well, it’s now 4 o’clock. We haven’t been able to get a hold of this person… so we can safely assume they’re not interested and… you’re in!”
I can’t remember what I said. I do know that if I was there in person, I would have thrown Christian modesty out the window and kissed her.
I suck at bowling, but that evening the church young adults bowled and I bowled the best score of my life. The score holds up to this day.
The rest is history. I did Brock University teachers college during the Fall of 1986 and Winter-Spring 1987. I chipped away and finished up my honours BA. In February of 1987, I started dating my wife (she wasn’t my wife then). Our courting was fast and furious. We started dating in February 1987, we were engaged in May 1987 and we were married in December 1987, We’ve been happily married for going on thirty-seven years and have three children, four grandchildren and more beautiful memories that I thought would be possible when I was killing chickens and chipping mortar off cinder blocks.
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| * "Make My Day" by Marc Zimmerman |
I started supply-teaching immediately after finishing teacher’s college in April. I supply-taught for the whole following year. We bought our first home, a story and a half war time house on a beautifully tree-lined street just a stone’s throw away from one of the main tourist strips in Niagara Falls.
The next year, 1987-88, I supply-taught again. Toward the end of that year, we’d considered moving to all kinds of locations to find permanent work. We considered Northern Alberta on a First Nations reserve; I applied all over Ontario; we even considered going overseas. But then I had another thought. It worked once, maybe it’ll work again; I’m going to talk to the superintendent of education and tell him he should give me a permanent job.
But that's fodder for another blog post :)
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*with permission https://marczimmermanstudio.com/
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