Critical Teaching Incident 6/14/11

6/14/11      Critical Teaching     “Mr. Oguro”

He seemed rather out of place in a school where children were running amuck with runny noses.  Often the mountain weather in Kalihi Valley wreaked havoc on the children of this area.  It rained so often and we neither had the ability to play in a covered area or had supervision to understand that playing in the rain was not the best for a young child’s health.  Yet, in his finely pressed linen slacks, crisp white shirt and maroon striped tie, he sat perfectly in his teachers’ chair as the bell rang every day at Kaewai Elementary School.  He spoke in a low tone, with a slow and purposeful rhythm that seemed to hypnotize me.  He walked around the room and read from books that never displayed pictures instead they contained words that rolled off his tongue like bait on my grandpa’s fishing pole.   As he read eloquently, he swept me away from my daily anguish of seeing my mother as the “The Living Dead.”  Hurriedly, I would file through the kitchen for something to eat for myself and my little brothers and sisters, run as fast as I could through the raindrops with children flailing like wind socks, just to see that man again and again.  After months of being swept into the Islands of Crete, I began to walk into uncharted waters.  I dared to walk into the library. 

I never walked into the school's library before, a place I only heard about while eaves-dropping on teachers. The lady there took a look at me and immediately shooed me away like a stray dog.  I ran out as fast as I could.  Confused and bewildered, I imagined myself standing at a pier as the ship I just missed went voyaging into a new land; it knocked the wind right out of me.  I could not believe that reading a book alone was something I could do.  You see in those days, the library was a voluntary service.  The teacher was not obligated to go there with his/her class.  The students went on their own in special circumstances, but it was mostly reserved for the teachers. I was convinced that it would cost more than I could pay.  So I opted to listen and dream, Mr. Oguro was my only chance, how prophetic was that thought. 

With book in one hand and orchestrating with the other, he left me spellbound. The hem of his slacks landed evenly upon the heel of his shoe as he strutted slowly with an intentional rhythmic tone.  Looming vocals of loud to soft, Greek names rolled off his tongue, “Antioch”, “Poseidon”, “Andromedes”.  His pursed lips bearly moved with each pronunciation.  It was obvious that he belonged anywhere else except this classroom.  Slowly and mechanically, he completely erased the profile of his face as he turned his head without the evidence of a neck.  His hefty build commanded attention in the room as his slanted eyes darted though out the room and into each students’ soul.  With the silouette of Alfred Hitchcock, he mysteriously weaved through out the desks revealing the secrets of a far off land.  His shirt pocket protector held three colors of pens; red, blue and black which influenced his students’ rituals for their lifetime.  Though capable of terror, his judgement was withheld.  Each color represented his authority within the classroom; red for errors committed, blue for encouragement and black for the darkness of hell unleashed.  Mr. Oguro was neither frightening nor scary; he was inspiring.

The teacher that changed my life now read from the Book of Prometheus and dared to explain to 5^th graders how vanity is the downfall of every talented and gifted son.  After reading yet another story of bravery and self-sacrifices, Mr. Oguro asked us to write a story to show what we had learned from our own literature.  I began to write about a young brave who cared for his sisters and brothers in their tribe, whose mother had been shunned by their village for choosing to marry a white man.  Mr. Oguro taught me how to use my own life stories as I wrote.  During this time my mother was marrying a man who didn’t seem to mind having another man’s child in his house.  When Mr. Oguro read the story, he wept and put his hand on my head.  He looked at me with his piercing eyes and immediately slouched over to tell me he found someone to represent our school in the annual Hawaii State Writing competition.  I had no clue what he said but indeed went through an experience that I would never forget.  It forever changed my life.  I remember in one of our writing sessions to revise and edit, Mr. Oguro said to me, “Someday you will become everything you want to be.”  I was never able to show him my First Place award medal since he died before the school year was over. I carried his encouragement with me all my life.