9. When I grow up...

In my parents’ slide collection, there’s one photo that sums me up perfectly: four years old, standing in front of a line of chairs. Each holds a doll or teddy, except one, which had been occupied by my younger sister—until she got sick of being bossed around and walked out. I was the teacher, of course, and I’m sure I was furious at the disruption to my “class.”

From the moment I first attended kindergarten—run by our neighbour Mrs. Macgregor in her backyard—I knew I wanted to be a teacher. I loved the learning, the stories, the drawing, the songs. But above all, I loved the idea of being in charge, of telling others what to do and being instantly obeyed. Oh dear—was I in for a shock.

School came easily to me. I was obedient, eager to please, probably the classic “teacher’s pet.” I always wanted to be top of the class, and I liked helping others—though I probably wasn’t very patient, assuming they should just “get it” when I explained.

My parents had both left school early to help support their families. Dad preferred sports to study; Mum had been more diligent, focusing on typing and bookkeeping to secure employment—typical of the limited options for women at the time. They instilled in me the importance of education, and I took that to heart. Until about Year 11, when boys entered the picture and my focus shifted slightly.

Still, I scraped through my Higher School Certificate and earned a teaching scholarship to Mitchell College of Education in Bathurst. I enjoyed my time there—perhaps a little too much—and again just scraped through, graduating with a Diploma of Teaching in Primary Education.

In the late seventies, new teachers flooded the market. With few opportunities available, I passed the Public Service exam and became an “Assistant Administrative Vouchers Examiner”—a glorified paper-stamper. Two years later, I was finally offered a teaching position—along with a pay cut.

My first school was in Sydney’s western suburbs, in a tough environment where more seasoned teachers avoided the classes I was handed. My Year 1 class had 30 students—24 boys and 6 girls—deemed the “lowest of the low.” It was a steep learning curve, and classroom control was my first real lesson. I think the kids liked me, but looking back, I wonder how much they actually learned.

When I married, we moved to Bathurst. After a brief stint packing dog food, I landed a job at Burraga, a two-teacher school 70 kilometres away—half of it on a dirt road. I taught K–3, a class of 13, and shared the daily drive with the principal. No staff meetings, no fuss.

Burraga was an education in itself for a city girl. Most of the kids were farm children—and related. Gossip was a minefield, as was the party line telephone. In winter, snow could shut down the road for days. If it started falling, we’d call the bus-driving family, get the kids home fast, and race back to Bathurst before we got snowed in.

Despite limited resources, we made things work. The school had a piano but no pianist, so I volunteered my very poor skills and started a choir. We won the Bathurst Eisteddfod small schools division; I credit the kids for blithely singing on no matter what key I misplayed. When one of the fathers died quite unexpectedly, no organist could be found for his funeral so I was pressed into service. I had the mother with the loudest voice stand next to me and sing, so that the hymn could continue if I lost my place.

After having kids of our own, we moved to Orange. I taught at Cargo, another two teacher school, and then became the sole teacher at Borenore—a daunting task, managing students from Kindergarten to Year 6. I tried to make learning fun and hands-on. We visited farms, went caving, learned pottery, staged plays, and even studied German—based on my rusty high school knowledge. I wonder if any of them still remember “Guten Tag.”

Later, we moved to Melbourne, where finding a teaching role proved difficult. In desperation, I applied for a German teaching job in a primary school—and got it! The previous teacher, a native speaker, lacked classroom control; all they wanted from me was order. I made the lessons fun: German “Guess Who,” fashion parades, songs, games. If an actual German family had enrolled, I might’ve been exposed—but fortunately, no one did.

Eventually, I returned to general classroom teaching, then moved into leadership roles, ultimately becoming a Teaching and Learning Coach. I worked with inexperienced teachers and helped schools manage challenging classes, aiming to make learning more engaging and inclusive.

Looking back, I started out wanting control, but I gained so much more—resilience, creativity, empathy, and a deep appreciation for the chaotic joy of the classroom. I never taught to make a name for myself; I taught because I believed in the power of learning to change lives—even when the path was unpredictable.

From bossy four-year-old to mentor of teachers, the journey wasn’t always neat or easy. But it was rich, meaningful, and uniquely mine—and I wouldn’t change a thing.