Mr Wales was my high school English teacher. He was a great man and, if you’ll forgive the cliché of an author talking about how important his high school English teacher was to him, I’d like to share a few memories I have of him.
I will be referring to my teacher as Mr Wales. Because that’s how I knew him. Because that’s what I called him when I stuck my hand up in class and asked for help. Because, even though I am now twenty-nine, I still feel a bit awkward calling him Colin. (He was a TEACHER, how disrespectful of me to call him by his name!)
Mr Wales was a constant for me throughout high school. He was my English teacher in first year, when I used to sit in his room, struggling to pay attention, because the girl I really fancied sat right in front of me. He was my English teacher in sixth year, where I just about managed a C in Advanced Higher (and struggled to pay attention because the girl I really fancied was also in this class).
Mr Wales taught me about books, about language, and how to convey myself through my words. He taught me Romeo & Juliet, The Death of a Salesman and The Lord of the Flies. He told me I should read Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett because I’d love it (and he was right). Years later, my very first attempt at a novel would be a poor effort at trying to replicate the humour and fantasy of the Discworld books.
Mr Wales also taught us Media Studies. As you can imagine, the idea of getting to watch films in school (not just on the last days of term) was too exciting an opportunity to pass up. It was in Mr Wales’s room that I watched Jaws for the first time. It was in Mr Wales’s room that I watched It’s a Wonderful Life for the first time. It was in Mr Wales’s room that I started crying while watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the first time.
One thing that films and real life have in common is this: teachers are inspirational. The difference between the two, however, is that in real life, it isn’t always obvious how inspiring something or someone is. In films, there are clues. The music swells. The camera moves to a close up of the hero. Textbooks are ripped up. Ties are thrown in the air. Days are seized, etc.
In real life, there are no moments like this. Teachers don’t build to one giant, incredible, life-defining moment of inspiration which totally shapes their students for the rest of their lives. Instead, teachers have a million little moments like this, year upon year.
The inspiring moment a teacher provides is not cinematic. It’s something simple, mundane. It’s the pat on the shoulder when you’re upset and trying to hide it. It’s the smiley face and the “this is a great work!” scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting at the top of your essay. It’s the moment you find out your teacher likes a band that you like and you realise that maybe they have a life outside the walls of the school.
So when I look back, I find I cannot identify a definitive moment where Mr Wales made me realise I could become a writer. Because there was no big moment. (I didn’t even do any writing back then, I figured that was something only grown ups could do.) But what I can identify are the little moments when he made me feel I was someone better than I believed I was.
In first year, when he told me he liked The Young Ones poster I’d covered my jotter in. In fourth year, when I got the first and, as it turned out, only 25/25 mark for an essay I’d ever had (I spent around 5 hours on it at home, far more than the allotted hour I should’ve had in class). In sixth year, when I told him how much I’d enjoyed Guards! Guards! and how I’d already ordered the follow up, Men at Arms.
So, looking back, I wouldn’t say Mr Wales directly inspired me to be a writer. But he did inspire me to want to impress him. To want to be someone he considered a friend, a peer. He made me want to be the best version of myself I could be.
Mr Wales will live on, like all great teachers, in the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to be taught by him. Most likely because, his favourite thing to do, just as the lesson was coming to an end, just as the room was quiet enough and none of us were prepared, was to bellow at the top of his voice:
‘OH MY GOD,’ gesturing to the clock. ‘IS THAT THE TIME?!’
This goes through my head on a daily basis, and I bet I’m not the only one from Bannockburn High who can say that.
I think one of the tragedies of growing up is realising that you will never be able to repay your favourite teachers. Because you didn’t realise what they were doing at the time. Back then, if I had been asked why my teachers chose to go into teaching, I probably would’ve answered that it was because they hated children so much. Now I can see the opposite is true. Teachers are a special breed. They know that they will very likely receive no word of thanks at the end of a lesson, just a sea of schoolbags being slung on and tossed jotters as the crowd shuffles out. And they do it anyway, because they know what we’re like. We’re just kids. And someday we’ll grow out of it.
Thank you, teachers.
Thank you, Mr Wales.