Educating Ernest. (a Whole New Chapter In The Story Of My Life)

"I read my first book when I was nineteen years old," I confessed. The hall became strangely quiet and dozens of heads turned in my direction. A little discomforted by the reaction, I added, "I`m...er...a teacher of English now." A ripple of quiet laughter spread around the room. The amusing moment passed and other aspiring writers made their comments at the one day conference for would-be wordsmiths at Keele University. Jeffrey Archer (prior to his incarceration) was given his usual going-over. One or two other phenomenally successful writers were similarly maligned and we all felt a little better for realising it wasn`t the fault of our writing that hindered our success. The first session over, we broke for coffee. I had just picked up my cup and was trying to inconspicuously sneak a couple of extra biscuits onto my saucer when a pleasant lady came over to talk to me about my comments earlier. There was a slight, though not cruel, hint of patronization in her words as we talked: a kind of `Haven`t you done well then?` My early lack of education was viewed as a disability which I had somehow managed to overcome. She wasn`t too far wrong, I suppose. Having failed the selection proceedings at the first hurdle in school, it was expected that I remove myself from the pointless process of education as soon as possible and find manual work. I fulfilled this expectation. But I was not happy. A number of things led to my discontent but the catalyst for me came when I was invited to an `arty` weekend in Didsbury. How on earth I got invited to such an event I`ll never know, but, to oblige a friend, I went. Finding myself in the unlikely company of a curious group of lecturers and students one evening in the pleasant sun-lit sitting room of a Didsbury detached, a literary discussion began. Four turgid hours of slow death by embarrassment followed, interrupted only by tea and biscuits. I had neither heard of nor read the books of the many authors mentioned. And the worst thing was, noticing how rather quiet I was hiding behind my tea-cup; everyone was trying to be kind and involve me in the discussion. Humiliated by the experience, I was determined to find out what was so wonderful about these books that I had avoided for a lifetime. Monday morning came. Recalling names from the `arty` weekend, I walked resolutely into my local Smiths and bought a copy of a book by a gentleman called Dostoevsky. Tuesday and three pages into my first book, I was well and truly lost. I decided a map was needed to guide me through the tricky bits. Back at the bookshop, I purchased a dictionary. Every new word I encountered was looked up and learned. The days passed, and so did the pages in my first book. I can`t remember how long it took but eventually I did it. I read my first book. An activity so natural and normal to the average person was, for me, an achievement so significant that it was going to change my life. I soon became a prolific reader and found my mind being shaped and stretched in a way I would never have believed possible. The one-time distant and unfathomable world out there grew smaller as my own personal world grew larger and more perplexing. A delightful tension: both wonderful and liberating. I discovered poetry. I had always appreciated Bob Dylan`s lyrics even if I hadn`t got a clue what he was singing about. When he spoke of dancing beneath a diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea, I never thought of it as poetry. Now I knew better. A friend suggested to me that I would benefit from going to college and taking some O-levels. I had heard of these qualifications but had no idea what they were or how they were acquired. He patiently explained the procedure to me. Convinced, I took Lang` & Lit` and loved it. That decided it for me. In my early twenties, I entered academia. Four years later, I emerged from college with my first degree (in English, of course) and a qualification to teach. Two interesting incidents occurred in rapid succession soon after. The first was meeting one of my old teachers in town who impressed me by remembering my name. `Charlton, isn`t it?` Retired a few years earlier he slipped smoothly back into teacher mode: `A bright lad I always thought but never really fulfilled your potential. What are you doing with yourself now?` I told him I was a teacher. He studied me for a moment. `Hm, not as bright as I thought you were!` and with that, he left. I also started teaching GCSE English to adults. During our first session one said - and I`ll never forget it - "You`ll have to go slow with me, mate. It`s all right for you lecturers, you`ve been reading books all your life and studying." Funny, that`s exactly what I thought about people like me a few years earlier. I sometimes wonder why my teachers never `discovered` me in school. And then I look around those children in my charge now: the bright ones and the not-so-bright, and the judgement I have already made - and I wonder again.