The autobiographic vignette below was originally titled “Surly to Citizen”.  I wrote this passage in the early months of my (attempted) PhD in 1998. My doctoral research focused on educational inequality and the lessons taught by the “formal” and “informal” curriculum at schools in hard places. This story talks to the extraordinary support provided to me, in 1986, by a very special teacher. I have changed the name of the adult in this story

“What do you mean you didn’t understand everything she said?”, Dad queries as he traces the geometric pattern on the dining tablecloth with his clean but darkened grease-stained fingers.

“Well, I got the impression she wasn’t happy about Paul’s behaviour”, Mum explains, “But we already new that from the letter she sent us requesting the- what did she call it – ‘extraordinary parent-teacher meeting’. I mean school’s only been back, what- a month and a half?”.

“So what did you say she said; what was that word she used?”, Dad asks.

“Surly”, I proffer without really moving my lips.

“What does that mean?”, Dad asks first looking at Mum, then switching his gaze to me.

I remove my chin and clasped hands from the tabletop and reveal the open dictionary that had been on my lap.

“We had to come home and look it up ourselves”, Mum admits with a touch of humour in her voice.

I clear my throat, and exercise my swallow reflex. Tracking my finger to the entry for ‘surly’, I read, “It means, um,  bad-tempered and unfriendly; churlish. Do I have to continue?”

Dad narrows his tired night-shift weary eyes and chews his lip.

I take this to mean I must continue. “Um, it means I’ve been, ah, unpleasant, unfriendly, rude, crusty, cantankerous,  crabby, temperamental, cross, crotchety, irritable, grumpy, bearish, gruff, sullen, testy, touchy, short-tempered, ill-tempered, bad-tempered, ill-natured, bad-natured, ill-humoured, peevish, quarrelsome, argumentative, obnoxious, uncivil, rough, and grouchy.”

“I see”, Dad says interrupting my flow as he strums the lines on his forehead.

“What do you think’s the matter Paul?”

“I don’t know”, I whine as I close the dictionary and slide it toward the centre of our dining suite come conference table.

There is silence as I am encouraged to think of a better response. I can’t, so I join my father in the act of tracing the geometric pattern on the tablecloth with my finger.

“Mrs Gale asked me what you enjoy doing at home – in your free time”, Mum says breaking the pregnant silence.

“What’s that got to do with it”, Dad pipes in.

“She thinks he’s acting out because he’s bored”, Mum introduces.

“I didn’t hear her say that?”, I confess. “Was that when you talked alone?”

Mum nods, then continues, “I told her about your interest in computers, and she said that she’s getting a computer soon and that she might need some help getting it working.”

“We’ve already got a computer in our classroom.”

“No, her own computer- at home.”

“What does that involve?”, Dad asks.

“Mrs Gale has invited Paul around to her home on the weekend – not this weekend, but one weekend soon – and she would like Paul to help her. Do you think you can do that?”

My finger stops moving on the table linen and I raise my head to look at both my parents. Their faces are full of concern and hope for me. They wait anxiously for a moment, then smile as I nod- yes.

Although difficult to comprehend from the modern ‘child protection’ era, the rest of that year involved me spending an average of four or five hours every third Sunday in the garage-come-rumpus room of my teacher’s modest home. Presented with the challenge of operating a computer for which I had little or no operating knowledge, I’d spend hours familiarising myself with basic software applications such as word processors, data-bases, and spread-sheets. Upon important discoveries I would call out to Mrs Gale, and she would come to watch and listen to me as I explained how my ‘break through’ might be important to her. At that moment I was the teacher and she was the student.

As the year rolled by, I saw less and less of Mrs Gale. She would let me loose in her rumpus room and I would play with BASIC programming, and explore software that she borrowed from the education department. Eventually my task was to familiarise myself with the software applications and then share that knowledge with others at school. A ‘Computer Monitor’ position was created in the senior section of the Primary School, and in that capacity I was invited by a variety of computer-novice teachers to explain to class groups how to use the software. Mrs Gale also supported my service of the school as flag monitor, bell ringer, and cross flag collector. Responsibilities I took seriously.

The final Sunday of October, 1986, marked the end of my time as Mrs Gale’s computer helper and guest in her home. I recall it vividly as I missed watching the Australian Grand Prix on television. That day, I toiled away on Mrs Gale computer before being driven home. As always, Mrs Gale would share with me kind words of appreciation and encouragement. On this final afternoon, she pulled up in front of my house and looked at me with the same face full of concern and hope that my parents had shown me at the start of the year. She said, “Thank you Paul, you’re a good kid and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Go and do good things with your talents.”  As I digested those words, she presented me with a personal gift, a calligraphy ink set, and informed me that the school had something special for me as well.

A few weeks later, and on the second to last day of my primary school career I was called in front of an assembly of my peers and their parents to receive a certificate of recognition. With few people clapping louder than my Mum and Mrs Gale, I was presented with the Junior Citizen Award 1986 in recognition of my ‘efforts in developing a strong, sound base to become a leading citizen of the future’.

I’ve reflected in the four decades since that I was at a crossroads at the end of Primary School. I now believe I won the lottery with a teacher (and parents) that believed in me, and gave me a chance. Mrs Gale cared. She invested the time to identify my spark – a desire to serve others. She gave me purpose and autonomy, and most importantly, created opportunities for me to be my best self. All my working career I have tried to pay this forward. I firmly believe most children live up to the expectations implicitly and explicitly communicated to them by the significant adults in their lives.

See also the late Peter Benson’s TEDx Talk on Sparks: How Youth Thrive