The forthcoming narrative is essentially an ode to Miss Rodney- former secondary school English teacher- and reminisce has no doubt that the intensity of parallels with today, courtesy of yesteryear, remain absolutely relevant to the loss and gain of teacher role-models, hence feral young'uns, reckless parents, poorly-equipped classrooms and a few divine instants of connecting with students.
Every philosopher worth their weight in gold has always decreed that education is key, and judging by election pledges, and OFSTED reports, and think tanks coming up with new and revolutionary ways of implementing an antiquated practice, talk to the ‘man’ and ‘woman’ on the street and the rhetoric hollers the discontent of failed, inner-city schools, amid the benefits of private leafy-suburbs, according to a growing consensus the proverbial train wreck that is public education in the United Kingdom today, is in fact a wreck on a wreck, and has been smouldering for a very long-time now, consequently a generational measure with some memories of school slumbering in the presence of glad, relieved for the sole ingredient needed for education to work for the uneducated, thus in all her glory, reminisce really appreciating Miss Rodney.
And because there was her legend; the many reasons why Miss Rodney was the unqualified personification of a great teacher, of which she unapologetically was, which would have been more than enough, even had she not been in every respect of youthful, horny tendencies, from tip to toe wholly unattractive, to put her far beyond the gates of any teenage boy consumed by…well, provocations, it was all about her indeed, for the many, and their just another ghetto tale you could literally hear coming up, it was her indeed in her tacit, poker-faced fashion. And she moved, therefore, through the corridors of school, like a woman mysteriously visited by God, and there was no clarification available to explain it other than by the grace of some God, no ornaments ever graced her body; about her no jingling, no shining, no ribbon falsifying her blameless and implacable headgear; on her nappy-proud head where the barest minimal of 'TCB' greased her roots, causes entrenched in what solidified her legend. And no contempt for her, not never, knowing that those words would speak with a whisper uneasy; they never could be certain that they might be holding up to scorn the greatest saint amongst them, the Lord’s exclusive gem and most holy vessel, a wonderful example of humility and not ever anybody’s fool.
The reality was, with school defined by its inner-city demographic, where a certain type of people, from a certain type of place represented a certain type of way, truth was, young, culturally refined and resentfully British, there was no way colour-coded sympathies were not going to identify with every breath exhale inhales, and Miss Rodney defined the imprint, away from home she was the soul provider, in what was the most important and crucial period of juvenile lives, in terms of what to do in life, and how it be done, and where to go with it, she was a teacher, of a calibre, of which enabled you to crystallise your thoughts and make things clear to you. Miss Rodney imparted the importance of having a deep belief in your own self-possession, self-esteem and self-respect, and it was important to her that her pupils represented a determination to achieve brilliance, in whatever they endeavoured to undertake, to be the best at whatever youthful inspiration aspired to do, in essence Miss Rodney instilling a commitment to the eternal principles of pride, enthusiasm, and sheer bloody empowerment, part of the very reason talking is never slurred, pants never sag, or hands grabbing on nuts while disillusionment screams ‘f**k the world’, in effect life lessons Miss Rodney was able to teach without ever saying it was so.
The reminisce of Miss Rodney, moving along the parallel of today’s educational system, systematically the state of a nation, not for the want of a better way to put it Miss Rodney was a schoolboy’s, erstwhile covenant, and she’s dearly missed, and whether resonated with articulate Ebonics, or cultural interpretations, or humanity’s constant moment, with the political rhetoric talking about making education a “national mission”, teachers of Miss Rodney’s calibre remains missed just like the Mr Gordon’s, and the Mr Murray’s, and one day the Miss Thompson’s of this noteworthy world, a loss thrashing the very same dropout rates of which are especially high in these explicit areas, reminisces hoping that the history of Miss Rodney never becomes a myth.