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Write the narrative part of your Extended Definition of the term “real teacher”
i did the paper and the teacher told me to do some change i will post the example first and my work and the final answer
first, underline the subjust and the verb like the example and should write names for each person u wrote about
second start like the example narrative and begins definition
third narrtive and alot of detail and discribe
last one , evdentiary
Niloc Retseh
ENG 102-007
Professor Hester
XD: Teachers — Winter 2013
The Winters of My Discontent
All through grade school in suburban Toronto, Canada during the late ‘50s and
early ‘60s, I’d never been much of an artist. I’d never been much of anything except
the puny, non-descript, barely noticeable little brother of my older sister, Dawne. Dawne,
upon her birth, had managed to corral all the “looks” and “brains” chromosomes
available in our family gene pool. Thus ill-equipped and all alone, I spent my years in
school traipsing dutifully in my sister’s footsteps, a year behind and one grade at a time.
As I did, my teachers would marvel at and even wonder aloud at how I could possibly
even remotely be related to her.
Until the seventh grade. That year I had Mrs Winters. That year I learned to
paint. That year I learned to see.
I, of course, learned nothing of the kind. I was taught it — taught it by a real
teacher. What’s a real teacher? A real teacher doesn’t just monitor our comings and
goings. A real teacher doesn’t just evaluate our musings and moanings. A real teacher
doesn’t even just open gates or doors for us. Rather, a real teacher not only gatekeeps
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
the open door for us, but she beckons us forth with a map, a map not only of the world
beyond us, but the much more revealing world within.
Mrs Winters revealed to me that world within. A full-bosomed, gray-haired
woman, Mrs Winters looked as pretty as a grandmother in a Broadway musical — looks
which, in those ancient days, people would term “handsome.” From Mondays to
Fridays, Mrs Winters taught grammar and reading, but on Wednesdays, from the end of
lunch-hour on, she taught art. During those afternoons, Mrs Winters taught us how to
make a paper maché mask actually look like it was crying; she taught us how to make a
pipe-cleaner leopard freeze in predatory full flight. Most importantly, the Wednesday of
our first painting class, Mrs Winters taught me how to see.
That Wednesday, I had spent the entire first half of the afternoon just splotching
watercolor onto paper into some sort of non-modernistic abstract mess, all-the while
remaining desperate for afternoon recess to arrive. When recess finally came and all
the other boys went roaring outside to resume our lunch-hour touch football game, Mrs
Winters asked me to stay behind. Just for a few minutes, she added. We were standing
by the window that looked out over the playground and playing fields, and I kept
glancing out the corner of my eye as everyone seamlessly arranged themselves into the
same two squads they had been during lunch hour. Mrs Winters asked why I hadn’t
painted anything. I shrugged and said I didn’t know what to paint. She watched me
as I continued to glance longingly out the window. She asked me if I liked football. I
told her I loved it. She paused. Then she took me by the arm and looked into my eyes
and told me a truth. “You’re different than those boys,” she said. I blinked, staring at
her wide-eyed. “But you already know that,” she said. I swallowed. Hard. I thought I
would cry. Back then, I was not a big fan of the truth, especially when it came to truths
about myself — a character flaw I’ve yet to even partially amend. But back then Mrs
Winters continued: “You are as smart and as gifted as your sister. You just don’t know
that yet. Now, go on,” she said. “Off to your football. I will find you something to
paint.”
When I returned, sweaty, fifteen minutes later, waiting on my desk was a page
from a magazine. I guessed, because of the page’s glossy-ness, from Sports Illustrated.
The photo was an action photo of the gifted flanker Bobby Mitchell of the Washington
Redskins. The photographer had captured him making a one-handed, fingertip catch
high above his helmeted head. An amazing catch. An amazing image: just Mitchell. No
other players. No crowd. Just Mitchell. Number 49. All alone.
I asked Mrs Winters if she meant for me to copy it. And she told me, no.
“Don’t copy it,” she said. “Paint it. But don’t paint the one on the magazine page.
Paint the one behind your eyes. The one inside your mind.” “But how?” I asked,
“how?” “Just look,” she said, “look.” And so I looked.
What was also right there, when I looked, was that truth about myself and that is
really what she taught me — what all real teachers teach: a way at looking out at the
world and at the same time into ourselves. In my case, into my alone-ness.
How well did Mrs Winters teach me? A couple of autumns later, my first months in high
school, we listened to a morning announcement that told of the visit, during lunch
periods that day, of a city-wide display of student art from grades K through eight, each
artwork selected for its merit. I ignored the display of course but sometime during that
afternoon, a girl in my class told me how much she liked my painting. I was speechless.
“In the display,” the girl added. Unable to resit, between classes I somehow managed
to steal a moment to return to the cafeteria hallway. And there he was, after all those
years, just as I’d left him — or, rather, how Mrs Winters, my real teacher, had left him:
Number 49. His arm stretched high, the ball on his fingertips. Bobby Mitchell. No
longer alone.
Nor was I.
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
محمد الظفيري
The Real Teacher
I studied the art. In it I felt Mrs. Morgan’s teachings re-unfold in my life, the sense of self-belief germinating in me. Her inspiring tutorials, everlasting in my mind, were reborn in my experiences. Her subtle encouragements made me take a paint and brush. I stared again at the painting. Her words “keep on bettering yourself, your work” floated back to my ears. Mrs. Morgan was a great teacher, she helped horn my skills as a painter. Skills she taught me have not been lost. She is the cause of my determination to achieve. What else can a teacher achieve other than impart and develop skills in a learner? I feel proud of Mrs. Morgan.
My first story begining with first gift from my father.It means a late to me because my father is not coming a lot to my country,Saudi Arabia. My father was studing PDH in teaxes so he was outside his country about six years.When I look at the cleanness of the painting, and I remember Mrs. Morgan teaching tidiness in everything, not just in painting. In all of these Mrs. Morgan still remains my favorite. Mrs. Morgan, she made me organize and plan my work. Planning was the best gift of the teachings she delivered to me. Just like in the painting, the brush strokes were carefully applied, organized to perfection in the process of creating the painting. The objects in the picture were balanced, organized and well arranged. Who else but a great teacher could help me organize the subjects in my painting so well? Everything was orderly, and I remembered Mrs. Morgan scolding me for smudging paint in my other paintings. I learnt to be orderly under her tutelage.
At times she would just take a brush and comb my hair. She was strict on personal hygiene, and with time my appearance changed. She would punish me for being untidy, and asked me to observe her cleanliness and learn from her. This is also the cleanliness in the painting that bears witness to her instructions on hygiene. My painting is clean and tidy. She was caring, and easily won my confidence and my trust. With time I ended confiding in her, and she would converse with me, making me learn to make my life neat clean and happy. She would praise me for doing something well. She built confidence in my own abilities increase. I started feeling I had the capacity to do what I set out to. For self-efficacy, she is the one who opened the doors for me.
The best lesson she gave me, was to belief in my abilities.
Mrs.Morgan from Organ. She came here to central to teach us the arts in CWU. Mrs.Morgan has two degrees art and space science.Here I was staring at the marvel Mrs. Morgan had made me create. The simplicity of my artistic work justifying she opened a door, a door to which my forgotten talent. She taught me how to be a painter and express myself through pieces of art. The feelings of exhilaration were being played through the windmills of time, from one childhood jubilation, to one of nostalgic satisfaction.
In this painting, I was not alone. I was talking to Mrs. Morgan, responding to her request I make use of my powerful observation and creative imagination to immortalize an idea, an image I could easily discard. Yes, she taught me the art of observation. That is Mrs. Morgan, my beloved real teacher. She taught me not to confine my ideas but expand my ability to transform ideas into material artifacts, an embodiment of our lived experience, and a simple way of creating tangible objects from abstract ideas.
Mrs morgan reduced herself to my level, the level of a child, and she gave me the task of painting. She then taught me the value of cooperating with others, because by cooperating with her, I painted the painting before me. She taught me the elements of a good teacher too, in the role-play of acting like a teacher in her class. I started expressing myself, my ideas. I expressed my ideas now are immortalized in the painting.
Yet, we were not alone. Mrs. Morgan, the painting and I were no longer alone as was the time the painting came into creation. The real teacher motivated me to put paint onto canvass. The discovery of talent was no longer a private affair, in the room. The girl had joined me, and she caressed the painting and said to me “It has a powerful voice of self-discovery, of someone catching his visions and actualizing his ambitions. It tells of achievements, after so long a time of waiting had elapsed.”
“Yes, it is because she was a great teacher, Mrs. Morgan’s encouragement I take painting showed me self-discovery only comes when others help you achieve it positively.”
The girl , kim my classmate. We have a lot of exsperince together in art class.At first time , when I ooked at her I liked her hair. Kim looked me straight in the eye and said another statement, “This picture tells me she taught you to overcome your childhood struggles, and you seem not to have like what people said about you. You hated the truth about yourself, didn’t you?” Before I replied, she interrupted “But time has made you realize despite the bad truths, you have some good elements about you that you never realized. Your smile beckons I’m correct, I’m I not?” I simply nodded in affirmation and she smiled too. Mrs. Morgan taught me to appreciate myself. And the picture about the girl, kim the frist love in amercia when I come here. Kim was so beautiful in that picture and the truth.
Mrs. Morgan was a great effective teacher. She taught me to have ambitions, and instilled in me the value of hardwork. She taught me to be resilient, patient and focused to my goals, to my dreams.
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