For the past thirty years I have taught homeschool students. I began with my own children, and then offered courses in Latin, Shakespeare, and Medieval History to small classes of homeschoolers in Waynesville, North Carolina.
Fifteen years ago, two mothers in nearby Asheville asked me to offer a Latin class. That fall I taught Latin I to twenty middle-school and high school students as well as a Beginning Latin class to five elementary school students. With each passing year, I added more and more students, more and more classes: Latin, literature, history, and composition. Within ten years, well over one hundred students were annually enrolled in these seminars, ranging from beginning writing classes to Advanced Placement studies, which are the equivalent of college courses. Since many students often enrolled in more than one class, in some years nearly two hundred students sat in my classes during any given week.
In terms of work, these were the happiest years of my life. I was fifty years old and had finally found my vocation. Previously, I had operated a bed-and-breakfast and two bookstores, and had also worked as a teacher in a prison and a public high school. But none of these occupations compared with the joy and satisfaction I found in instructing these students. Most of the time, I found myself in “teacher heaven,” loving every class and what we accomplished.
Let me give you some reasons why.
First, I was my own boss. I devised the courses, selected the books, wrote up the syllabi and lessons plans, and graded the papers and tests, though I eventually hired older students to help with the grading as the numbers increased. In sum, I conducted the classes as I best thought fit for the students. In my seminars, capitalism and freedom merged: I provided a service to students and parents, and if they disliked the classes, they could withdraw. The liberty to teach what and as I pleased brought a profound sense of satisfaction.
Because many of my students often attended several years of classes—several students sat in that classroom for seven years, from sixth grade through twelfth grade—we became well-acquainted. Not only did I perceive their academic strengths and weaknesses, but I also came to know them in a deeper way. Some became friends—at least, as much as one can become friends with a teacher. Some shared their joys and sorrows with me. Some brought a sense of humor into the classroom that enhanced the pleasure of teaching. And best of all, I watched as some students—a few each year—burst past what they perceived as their limitations and grew as writers and human beings.
In addition, a number of the parents of these students became my friends. They had four, five, and six children, some of them, and so for years I was teaching one or more of their children. The Cobbs, the Rennards, the Goodrums, the Flemings, and a score of others: with each new academic season, their children came to my classes, and during that time their parents and I became close. They were kind to me, rallying round after my wife Kris died twelve years ago, giving me Christmas bonuses, sending treats and gifts to the classroom, and even paying for me to go to Europe for two months.
One of the best gifts, however, came from the students who had graduated and gone off to the college, to the military, or to work, and who then returned to tell me how well my classes had prepared them for the challenges they faced. One of my goals as their teacher was to produce writers, and here I was successful. A few of my students became professional writers—one is a poet, another a song-writer, and several are editors or journalists—but what I really wanted was to build writing skills in all these young people that would help them on whatever path they chose in life. Judging by remarks made to me over the years, both the students and I accomplished this goal.
Finally, teaching these young people was a daily joy. Being with them gave me a sense of adventure and exhilaration, and I revered and loved them for their struggles, their yearnings, their failures and successes, and their foibles. In the evenings and on the weekends, I carried them in my head and heart, smiling at some humorous incident from class or at something foolish I’d said, or else brooding on my failure to help a failing student, going over and over again in my mind what I might have done or said differently.
In early August of this year, I closed down Asheville Latin Seminars. Three weeks later, I visited my classroom for the last time to perform a few chores. When I closed the door behind me and started down the stairs to my car, I left behind a pinewood shelf, a pile of books, a filing cabinet stuffed with papers, and a piece of myself I will miss for the rest of my life.
In terms of work, these were the happiest years of my life. I was fifty years old and had finally found my vocation. Previously, I had operated a bed-and-breakfast and two bookstores, and had also worked as a teacher in a prison and a public high school. But none of these occupations compared with the joy and satisfaction I found in instructing these students. Most of the time, I found myself in “teacher heaven,” loving every class and what we accomplished.
Let me give you some reasons why.
First, I was my own boss. I devised the courses, selected the books, wrote up the syllabi and lessons plans, and graded the papers and tests, though I eventually hired older students to help with the grading as the numbers increased. In sum, I conducted the classes as I best thought fit for the students. In my seminars, capitalism and freedom merged: I provided a service to students and parents, and if they disliked the classes, they could withdraw. The liberty to teach what and as I pleased brought a profound sense of satisfaction.
Because many of my students often attended several years of classes—several students sat in that classroom for seven years, from sixth grade through twelfth grade—we became well-acquainted. Not only did I perceive their academic strengths and weaknesses, but I also came to know them in a deeper way. Some became friends—at least, as much as one can become friends with a teacher. Some shared their joys and sorrows with me. Some brought a sense of humor into the classroom that enhanced the pleasure of teaching. And best of all, I watched as some students—a few each year—burst past what they perceived as their limitations and grew as writers and human beings.
In addition, a number of the parents of these students became my friends. They had four, five, and six children, some of them, and so for years I was teaching one or more of their children. The Cobbs, the Rennards, the Goodrums, the Flemings, and a score of others: with each new academic season, their children came to my classes, and during that time their parents and I became close. They were kind to me, rallying round after my wife Kris died twelve years ago, giving me Christmas bonuses, sending treats and gifts to the classroom, and even paying for me to go to Europe for two months.
One of the best gifts, however, came from the students who had graduated and gone off to the college, to the military, or to work, and who then returned to tell me how well my classes had prepared them for the challenges they faced. One of my goals as their teacher was to produce writers, and here I was successful. A few of my students became professional writers—one is a poet, another a song-writer, and several are editors or journalists—but what I really wanted was to build writing skills in all these young people that would help them on whatever path they chose in life. Judging by remarks made to me over the years, both the students and I accomplished this goal.
Finally, teaching these young people was a daily joy. Being with them gave me a sense of adventure and exhilaration, and I revered and loved them for their struggles, their yearnings, their failures and successes, and their foibles. In the evenings and on the weekends, I carried them in my head and heart, smiling at some humorous incident from class or at something foolish I’d said, or else brooding on my failure to help a failing student, going over and over again in my mind what I might have done or said differently.
In early August of this year, I closed down Asheville Latin Seminars. Three weeks later, I visited my classroom for the last time to perform a few chores. When I closed the door behind me and started down the stairs to my car, I left behind a pinewood shelf, a pile of books, a filing cabinet stuffed with papers, and a piece of myself I will miss for the rest of my life.
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