My father was just inducted into the Ventura County Educators Hall of Fame. The event was a lovely affair, and my father gave a speech that encapsulated his life and career in education. The speech was very much like my father–intellectual, thoughtful, clever, and warm. He has been imparting wisdom and kindness to my brother and myself for over fifty years, and in his eighty years of life he’s been a positive and benevolent force for civilization.
The only sadness in the speech was when he referred to–and had the audience raise a toast to–his departed wife (and mother to my brother and I). There is still a pang of grief when I think of my mother, gone now slightly over a year. I wish she had been there to see this, though I expect she would have tempered her admiration for his honor with her usual eye-rolling wry comment about teachers being a bit too self-important for our own good.
She’s right, of course. We certainly can be.
Each of the inductees were given the floor to make a speech, and that got me thinking. Here were half a dozen elderly folks, all retired (many for some time) given one last opportunity to speak to a captive audience and teach them a thing or two. All of them used their chance to try and tell us something important about their own lives and, by extension, all our lives. The moment made me think of a very recent retiree from my own school, Alison Hunsaker, who only two days earlier had her last professional high school day. So thinking about retirement among teachers has been on my mind.
What must it be like to lose that “captive audience” that you have grown accustomed to? Teachers, as my departed mother would say, love to talk and be listened to. What must it be like to feel as if you are no longer listened to? When given the chance to speak again, certainly, these folk would grab it. And why not? They’ve earned it.
What does it mean that in our society we cease listening to people when they are at their most wise, possess the most perspective, and have the most to impart to us?
In any case, to my father, to all retired teachers, and to all of the older folks out there–
Keep talking. We’re still listening.
Be seeing you!
The only sadness in the speech was when he referred to–and had the audience raise a toast to–his departed wife (and mother to my brother and I). There is still a pang of grief when I think of my mother, gone now slightly over a year. I wish she had been there to see this, though I expect she would have tempered her admiration for his honor with her usual eye-rolling wry comment about teachers being a bit too self-important for our own good.
She’s right, of course. We certainly can be.
Each of the inductees were given the floor to make a speech, and that got me thinking. Here were half a dozen elderly folks, all retired (many for some time) given one last opportunity to speak to a captive audience and teach them a thing or two. All of them used their chance to try and tell us something important about their own lives and, by extension, all our lives. The moment made me think of a very recent retiree from my own school, Alison Hunsaker, who only two days earlier had her last professional high school day. So thinking about retirement among teachers has been on my mind.
What must it be like to lose that “captive audience” that you have grown accustomed to? Teachers, as my departed mother would say, love to talk and be listened to. What must it be like to feel as if you are no longer listened to? When given the chance to speak again, certainly, these folk would grab it. And why not? They’ve earned it.
What does it mean that in our society we cease listening to people when they are at their most wise, possess the most perspective, and have the most to impart to us?
In any case, to my father, to all retired teachers, and to all of the older folks out there–
Keep talking. We’re still listening.
Be seeing you!
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