My daughter Emma, a grade 10 student, was reading a website this week where students rate their teachers. Comments from students related to one teacher or another varied to a degree that left us wondering whether they could possibly be talking about the same teacher. Our discussion brought back memories of my old teachers. We all have a teacher in our past who we remember most, either for good reasons or for bad, or in some cases both. Mine is Mrs. Laschuk.
I attended a small Catholic girls high school in downtown Toronto in the mid 70’s, a time when teachers were still allowed to yell, throw things, and slam doors. Hitting the students was no longer an option, fortunately. I met my Math teacher Mrs. Laschuk on the first day of school in Grade 9 – she was my homeroom teacher and a Scottish force to be reckoned with. She was nearing retirement, diminutive in stature, with short red hair, and to this day I can picture her in her usual stance, at the front of the room facing the class, behind her chair, one foot up on the rung as she leaned the chair back towards her, holding a piece of white chalk between two fingers like a cigarette, hands covered in chalk dust, giving us “the stare”. A stare that made me want to melt into my desk, onto the floor, and slowly evaporate from the room. Why “the stare”? Perhaps because we didn’t finish a homework question, perhaps because we faltered when asked to recite a formula, or simply because she wanted to remind us that she was in charge and we needed to be whipped into shape.
What was my motivation to learn Math from Mrs. Laschuk? That’s easy -- it was fear. She terrified me and everyone else in the class. Each morning before the bell, classmates and I would huddle around desks to go over the homework questions we didn’t understand, hoping to figure it all out in time, before she methodically picked out those of us who looked the most nervous and forced us to approach the blackboard without books, to answer last night’s questions. A pause, a wrong answer, a wrong word, lead to her usual reply “RUBBISH” (with the roll of the rrrr with her Scottish burr) and “the stare” sometimes accompanied by the clicking of her dentures and the chalk breaking. We would return to our desks hoping to duck the flying chalk as it whizzed past ears. Her disappointment in our math abilities was as evident as her nicotine-stained fingers.
Each day began with the review of homework, followed by a new lesson that started with “Right then” (again with the rolled rrrr). She would fill all of the blackboards in the room with formuli and questions – we had a matter of minutes to digest it all, because next came the practice questions in the text, and she would start at row 1 and painfully go row by row, girl by girl, expecting us to correctly answer the next question. Any hesitation on our part would lead to a shouted “NEXT” as she went on to the next girl. Frantic, I would count ahead….5 more girls before my turn, and then I would look to see which question would be mine, and try to work it out before she said my name. It never worked out. “The stare”, clicking dentures, “RUBBISH”, “NEXT”. I was paralyzed under her gaze.
Mention of an upcoming test threw all of us into fits of anguish. Her tests were tough, though I do recall her occasionally leaving the room while we wrote a test, returning after a few minutes smelling strongly of cigarette smoke. When she handed our tests back to us, they were covered in large red writing, and if we managed to get 90% or higher, a nod of the head as she laid it on the desk was her way of letting us know that we had done alright. I craved the nod.
The fear continued, through Grade 9 and then Grade 11 when again I faced Mrs. Laschuk in homeroom. I spent hours doing Math homework, anything to avoid her wrath, working through problems, (without calculators!) willing to do whatever it took to get through the next class unscathed. I did okay.
As luck would have it, I once again faced Mrs. Laschuk in Grade 13, and again as my homeroom teacher. The year began like the others. She taught, gave us “the stare”, we practiced and learned. I still feared her, but it was getting easier. And sometime in the Spring of that year she softened. We were mastering her subject. We had grown from awkward teens into young women, preparing to graduate. We were darned good at Math. She smiled more. She spoke of us as “her girls” (again with the rolled rrrr). She was proud of us. And on our last day of class there may even have been a tear or two. She would miss us. I do miss her.
What did I learn from Mrs. Laschuk?
That hard work and perseverance do pay off - I became a bit of a whiz and achieved excellent grades in all 3 Maths in Grade 13.
That Math is not something to be feared - I actually learned to enjoy Math, treating each question or problem like a puzzle that had to be solved.
That collaboration benefits everyone - those early mornings huddled together trying to solve homework problems created an environment where we worked as a team and supported each other.
That self-discipline is a worthy skill – time spent diligently working on Math homework every night led to a level of self-discipline that I’ve valued throughout my life.
It’s been 40 years since I sat in Mrs. Laschuk’s classroom. But the lessons learned are not forgotten.
Dayle Leishman
