Teachers

I would not have made a good teacher.

I lack the patience required to put up with the tempestuous personalities that disrupt classrooms, much less to let some snot-nosed, crater-faced punk tell me off without fear of reprisal.

Had I chosen to teach for a living, it’s doubtful that I would have survived my first week; driving a mouthy little sh!t through the wall is probably bad for business after all.

Some are far better equipped to teach than others, and I admire those who have made it their life’s profession to educate, influence and otherwise pull potential from what is arguably the world’s most precious resource—our children.

That sentiment really came to me last fall, when I learned that my high school English teacher, Mr. Murray, had passed away.

Mr. Murray was what all teachers should be.

Human.

Funny.

Accessible.

Inspiring.

He was a good man, the kind who could talk hockey one minute, jump into a profound explanation of fragments and figures of speech the next, then out of the blue admirably administer an explanation on alliteration at an inquisitive student’s behest.

Though it never felt like work, we always learned in Mr. Murray’s class. And that, perhaps, is the mark of a great teacher.

Without question, the ones from whom we learn without ever realizing we are listening are the ones we remember best.

Mr. Murray was one of those teachers, as is, I think, a music teacher in New York City whom I have only ever met on YouTube.

If the below video doesn’t bring a smile to your face, not much else will. The passion these kids exude as they sing is infectious.

And their inspiration, I can only assume, is largely drawn from the passion with which the teacher at the head of the class is leading them in song.

Even when he is not on screen, you can tell that dude is downright digging his class’s dazzlingly determined display.

That, if I’m not mistaken, is alliteration.

And I learned all about it in Mr. Murray's class, probably when I thought I wasn't even listening.