by Peter G. Beidler 白彼得

"Why do you teach, Pete?" My friend asked the question when I told him that I didn't want to be considered for a university administrative position. He was puzzled that I did not want to take what was obviously a step toward what all American boys are taught to want when they grow up, money and power. I told him that as a teacher I had both a decent salary and the only kind of power worth having, the power to change lives. "Besides," I said, "I like my job in part because no administrator has ever told me how to teach or what to teach or how to treat students. Why would I want to be an administrator cut off from the only kind of power that matters in a university?"

But he had stopped listening so I stopped talking. I was not satisfied with that answer anyhow. His question got me thinking, though. This little book is an extended answer to the question, "Why do you teach, Pete?"

Certainly I don't teach because teaching comes naturally to me. I was about the quietest kid in class all through high school and college. My teachers just couldn't get me to talk. The last thing I wanted to do for a career was stand in front of a group of people and jabber. And certainly I don't teach because teaching is easy for me. Teaching is the most difficult of the various ways I have attempted to earn my living: bulldozer mechanic, carpenter, temporary college administrator, writer.

For me, teaching is a red-eye, sweaty-palm, sinking-stomach profession. Red-eye because I never feel ready to teach, no matter how late I stay up the night before preparing for class. Sweaty-palm because I'm always nervous before I walk into that classroom, sure that I will be found out this time. Sinking-stomach because I walk out of the classroom an hour later convinced that I was even more stuttering and bumbling than usual.

Nor do I teach because I think I know answers, or because I know a body of information I feel driven to share. Sometimes I am amazed that my students actually take notes on what I say in class.

Why, then, do I teach?

Well, I teach because I like the pace of the academic calendar. I like it that twice a year, whether I am done or not, the semester ends. I get to turn in my grades, clean off my desk, and make a fresh start in a new semester, unshackled from the mistakes and problems from the past one. I teach because June, July, and August offer an opportunity for my own three R's — reflection, research, and writing—all ingredients in my recipe for teaching.

I teach because I like the freedom to make my own mistakes, to learn my own lessons, to stimulate myself and my students. As a teacher, I am my own boss. If I want my first-year composition students to learn to write by creating in the course of the semester their own writing textbook, who is to say I may not? Such courses may be colossal failures, but I can learn from my colossal failures. Unlike most professionals, I get to erase my mistakes twice a year, wash the blackboard, and start off on a whole new set of trials and the errors that come with them.

I teach because I like to ask questions that students must struggle to answer. The world is full of right answers to bad questions. Teaching, I sometimes brush up against good questions.

I teach because I like to learn. Take the comma out of the question, "Why do you teach, Pete?" and you get a better question, "Why do you teach Pete?" I teach Pete because Pete gets as flat and stale as day-old beer if Pete stops learning. I stay alive as a teacher only as long as I am learning. One of the major discoveries of my professional life is that I teach best not what I know, but what I want to learn.

I teach because I enjoy finding ways within an ivory-tower profession to get myself and my students out of the ivory tower and into the real world. I once taught a course called "Self-Reliance in a Technological Society." My fifteen students read Emerson and Thoreau and Huxley. They kept journals. They wrote term papers.

But we also set up a corporation, borrowed money from a bank, purchased a run-down house on nearby Vernon Street, and practiced self-reliance by renovating it. At the end of the semester we sold the house, repaid our loan, paid our capital gains taxes, and distributed the profits among the fifteen students.

Certainly this was not your average English course. But fifteen future lawyers, accountants, dentists, and businesspeople suddenly found themselves reading Walden with fresh eyes. Now they knew why Thoreau went to the woods, why he built his own cabin, and why he felt so good about the experiment that he wanted to tell the world about it. They also knew why, in the end, he left both the cabin and the woods. He had tasted the waters of Walden Pond. It was time to move on to other nectars.

I teach because teaching gives me many nectars to taste, many books to read, and many ivory and real-world towers to discover. Teaching gives me pace and variety and challenge and the opportunity to keep on learning. I teach for all those reasons, but they are not the most important reasons why I teach.

I teach because of Vicky. My first doctoral student, Vicky was an energetic and enthusiastic young bubble who had trouble seeing past the thrill of literature to the rigor of academic scholarship. But she plugged away at her dissertation on a nameless, little-known fourteenth-century poet. She hammered out some articles and sent them off to learned journals. She got a good job in a good university in Atlanta. She got involved in fund raising for her university. The last I heard from her she was being considered for a college presidency. I had little to do with her success as an academic, but I was there, grinning like an idiot, when she graduated.

Another reason is "Stan," the Americanized name of a student I taught as a Fulbrighter in China. During China's cultural revolution Stan watched his father executed, was sent to the countryside to be educated by illiterate pig farmers, taught himself English with a dictionary and a couple of Victorian novels, and eventually became an English teacher at the Chinese university where I taught for a year. I was eventually able to bring him to Lehigh University, where he earned his Ph.D. degree. He is now back in China, teaching brilliantly.

Another reason is Jeanne. Jeanne ran away from college, but some of her classmates brought her back because they wanted her to see the end of the self-reliance house project. I was there when she came back. I was there when she told me, years later, why she ran away that semester, and how much she needed to come back to my course. It is not, she said, that she was rebuilding the house on Vernon Street. It was that she was rebuilding Jeanne. The last I heard she had finished her law degree and went on to become a civil-rights lawyer.

Another reason is George, one of the brightest students I have ever had. He started as an engineering student, then switched to English because he decided he liked people better than things, because he was more interested in personalities than in hypotenuses, because he preferred worrying with the stress fractures in people than in the stress fractures in concrete beams. He stayed at Lehigh for a master's degree. The last I heard he was teaching English in a junior high school, shaping people rather than bridges.

Another reason is Jacqui, a cleaning woman who knew more by intuition than most of us ever learn by analysis. We chatted about this and that while she was emptying my wastepaper basket. Then one day we chatted longer over a cup of coffee while she was on her break. This woman who dropped out of high school became my teacher. She was amazed that a professor was interested in what she knew, amazed that I wondered why anyone so smart would be emptying my waste basket. She told me that even work like that had its rewards. Later Jacqui quit her job and went back to finish high school. I am not sure what happened after that. But I know, by intuition, that she is OK. And I know that she is no longer emptying other people's waste baskets. She can't be.

These are the real reasons I teach, these people who grow and change in front of my eyes. Being a teacher is being present at the creation, when the clay begins to breathe. Nothing is more exciting than being nearby when the breathing starts.

A "promotion" out of teaching would give me good money and real power. But I already have good money —good in the sense that I don't have to do anything bad to get it. Hey, I get paid for doing what I enjoy most: reading books, talking with people who have read the same books, making discoveries, and asking questions like, "What is the point of being rich, anyhow?" and "Are there other ways to define rich?"

And I already have a power more real than most people ever get. I have the power to nudge, to fan sparks, to water parched roots, to ask troubling questions, to praise an attempted answer, to condemn hiding from the truth, to suggest books to read, to point to where a pathway starts. What power is more real than asking a question like, "What do you mean by real? Do you mean real as in real estate or as in real world or as in royal, one of the original forms of the word? If you found out that you were going to die next week, would it matter whether you were royalty? Incidentally, we are all, metaphorically speaking, going to die next week. What do I mean by metaphorically in that sentence?"

But teaching also offers something besides good money and real power. It offers love. Not only the love of learning and of books and of ideas, but also the love that a teacher feels for that real student who walks into a teacher’s life, begins to breathe, and then walks out. Perhaps love is the wrong word.“Is magic what I mean? Magic originally meant something evil, akin to witchcraft and sorcery. Does it still have that meaning? Or is its meaning now controlled by its context? Can we imagine a context in which magic has good connotations? What is a connotation?”

I teach because, being around people who are beginning to breathe, I occasionally find myself, quite magically, catching my breath with them.◇

“你为什么教书呢，皮特¹？” 我告诉我的朋友我不想被考虑担任一项大学行政职务时，他提出这个问题。他感到困惑不解，因为我不想朝着长大成人后追求金钱和权力的方向迈出一步，这明明是所有美国男孩所接受的熏陶。我告诉他，作为教师我有不错的薪水和值得拥有的那种唯一的权力 — 改变生活的权力。“另外，”我说，“我喜欢我的工作，部分因为没有一个行政人员曾告诉过我该怎么教或教什么或如何对待学生。我为什么要当个与大学里唯一有意义的那种权力隔绝的行政管理人员呢？”

可是他不再听了，所以我也没再往下说。无论如何我对自己的回答不满意。然而，他的问题促使我思考。这本小书是对“你为什么教书呢，皮特？”这一问题的进一步回答。

不言而喻，我之所以执教，并非因为我生来就是块教书的料。在整个中学和大学时期，我大概是班上最安静的孩子。我的老师就是没法让我开口。我最不想作为终身事业的事是站在一伙人面前叽叽喳喳说个没完。当然，我之所以执教，并非教书对我而言轻而易举。我尝试过的籍以谋生的各种各样工作中 ?推土机机械师、木工、临时性大学行政管理人员、作家 ?教书是最困难的一行。

对我而言，教书是个令人熬红眼睛、手心冒汗、胃部虚脱的行当。熬红眼睛是因为无论上课前我熬夜备课到多晚，我从没感到准备充分。手心冒汗是因为我走进教室前总是非常紧张，自信这回会被学生发现（我不称职）。胃部虚脱是因为一个小时后我走出教室时，确信这堂课上得比平常甚至更结结巴巴和错误百出。

我教书也并非我认为自己是个百事通，或我有满腹觉得非得与他人分享不可的学问。有时我感到惊异，学生们竟真地把我堂上说的做了笔记。

那我为什么教书呢？

我教书是因为我喜欢校历的节奏。我喜欢一年有两次，不管我的教学任务完成与否，学期结束了。我把学生的分数交上去，收拾干净桌子后居然在新学期重新开始时不受上个学期所犯的错误和出现的问题的束缚。我教书是因为6月、7月、8月为我自己的3R — 反思 (reflection)、研究 (research) 和写作 (writing) — 提供了一个机会。这3R都是我教学“食谱”中的“原料” 。

我教书是因为我喜欢有自己犯错误的自由，吸取自身教训的自由和激励自己和学生的自由。身为教师，我是我自己的老板。如果我想要一年级作文课学生在学期中通过自行编写写作教材学习写作，谁能说我不可以那样做呢？这样的课程可能会彻底失败，可是我能从我的彻底失败中获得教益。与大多数专业人士不同，我居然能一年两次抹除错误，清洗黑板，开始新一轮的尝试和随尝试而来的错误。

我教书是因为我喜欢提出学生必须绞尽脑汁才能回答的问题。这个世界充满着针对拙劣问题的正确答案。在教学过程中，我有时会碰上些好问题。

我教书是因为我喜欢学习。把“你为什么教书，皮特？”(Why do you teach, Pete?) 这一问题中的逗号拿掉，你就有了个较好的问题“你为什么教皮特？”(Why do you teach Pete?)。我教皮特，因为如果皮特不再学习，他就跟晾了一天的啤酒一样既跑光了气又走了味。我只有不断学习，才能保持教师的活力。我在职业生涯中的主要发现之一是我教的最好的不是我知道的，而是我想要学的。

我教书是因为我喜欢在象牙塔行业中寻找使自己和学生从象牙塔里出来，步入现实世界的方法。我曾经开过一门叫“技术社会里自力更生”(Self-Reliance in a Technological Society) 的课。我的15名学生读了爱默生²(Emerson)、梭罗³(Thoreau) 和赫胥黎⁴(Huxley) 的作品，记了日记，还写了学期论文。

可我们还办起一家公司，从银行借钱在附近的弗农街 (Vernon Street) 买下一幢破旧的房子，以整修翻新进行自力更生的实践。在期末我们把房子卖掉，还清贷款，缴纳资本收益税后将利润分给了15名学生。

当然，这不是平常上的英语课。但是15名未来的律师、会计师、牙科医生和商人突然发现自己以新鲜的眼光阅读《沃尔登湖》(Walden)。现在他们知道了为什么梭罗进了林子，为什么他自己盖木屋，为什么他对自己的试验感觉那么好而要告诉全世界。学生们还懂得了为什么梭罗最后离开了木屋和林子。他已经尝了沃尔登湖水的味道。到了品尝其他甘美饮料的时候了。

我教书，因为教学给了我许多要品尝的甘美饮料，许多要读的书和许多有待发现的象牙塔和真实世界的塔。教学给了我节奏和多样化和挑战，也赋予我不断学习的机会。我为了所有这些原因而执教，可是它们不是我教书的最重要的缘由。

我之所以教书是因为维基 (Vicky)。她是我第一个博士生。维基是个精力充沛、热情洋溢的年轻活跃女孩，对她来说，越过文学的激情，看到学术成就的严谨有困难。但她孜孜不倦地撰写她那篇论述14世纪一位无人知晓的、不知名的诗人的学位论文。她尽心尽力地写了一些文章，寄给了学术刊物。她在亚特兰大 (Atlanta) 一所优秀大学获得一份好工作。她介入为大学募款的活动。我最后从她得到的消息是，她是一所学院院长的人选。她在学术上的成功几乎和我没有关系，不过她毕业时我在场，像傻瓜似地咧着嘴发笑。

另一个原因与“斯坦”(Stan) 有关。斯坦是我作为富布赖特学者在中国任教时我的一名中国学生美国化的名字。在文化大革命期间，他看着他的父亲被处决，自己被遣往农村接受没文化养猪农民的再教育，他靠一本词典和几本维多利亚时代⁵的小说自学英语，最后成为我执教过一年的大学里的英语老师。我最终成功地使他读上里海大学，获得博士学位。他已经回到中国，教学成绩斐然。

另一个缘由是珍妮 (Jeanne)。她中途大学辍学，但是她的一些同学把她拉了回来，因为他们要让珍妮看到自力更生整修旧房这一项目的结果。她回来时我不仅人在场，而且乐意提供帮助。多年后，在同样情况下⁶，她对我说，那个学期她为何离去和她多么需要回到我的课上来。她说，不是她在整修弗农街上那栋房子，而是在重塑自己。我最后听说她已经完成法律学位学习，继而成为一名民权律师。

另一个原因是乔治 (George)，他是我教过的最聪明的学生之一。他先念的是工程，后来改学英文因为他认为与物相比他更喜欢人；与三角形的弦相比，他对人的个性更感兴趣；与水泥梁中的应力断裂相比，他宁可更担心压力给人造成的精神损伤。他在里海大学攻读硕士学位。我最后听说他在一所初中教英文，塑造人而不是修建桥梁。

另一个原因是清洁工雅基 (Jacqui)。她凭直觉了解的事情比我们大多数人靠分析弄明白的还要多。她倒我的废纸篓时，我们谈这谈那。后来有一天，她休息时，我们边喝着咖啡边聊了有一会儿。这名从中学退学的妇女成了我的老师。她感到惊异，一个教授对她所知道的感兴趣，她对我纳闷为何这么聪明的人竟然给我倒废纸篓感到惊奇。她告诉我说，甚至那样的活也有回报。后来雅基辞了职，又回去上完中学。我不太清楚她后来怎样了。可是直觉告诉我她挺不错。我并且知道她不再倒别人的废纸篓了。她不可能再倒了。

这些是我缘何执教的真正原因，为的是这些在我眼前成长和变化的人。当一名教师就意味着泥土⁷开始呼吸时，做一名见证创造的人。没有什么比呼吸开始时就在邻近更激动人心的事了。

从教学岗位“提升”出来会给我带来优厚的薪金和真正的权力。但是，我已经有了丰厚的薪金 — “丰厚” 的意义在于为了得到它我无须干任何不得体的事。瞧，我拿了钱做我最乐意做的事：看书、和阅读同样的书的人们交谈、有所发现、提出如“做个有钱人到底有什么意义？”以及“‘富有’还有其他定义吗？” 等问题。

我已拥有的比多数人能有的更实在 (real) 的权力。我有权启迪、有权激励火花、有权浇灌干枯的树根、有权提出困惑的问题、有权赞扬尝试的回答、有权谴责躲避真理、有权建议该读的书、有权指点迷津。有什么权力能更加实在，可以问出“你说的‘真正’是什么意思？”这样的问题？“你说的real是‘房地产’(real estate) 中的real，还是‘真实的世界’(real world) 中的real，或是这个词的原形之一‘王族的’(royal)？如果你发现下周就会死，你是不是王族成员有关系吗？顺便提一下，比喻地说(metaphorically)，我们所有人下周都将撒手人寰。这句话里的“比喻地说”我指的是什么意思？”

但教书还提供丰厚的薪金和真正的权力以外的东西。它带来爱。不仅是爱学习、爱书和爱思想，而且还有老师所感受那真实的学生步入老师的生活，开始呼吸，然后离去的爱。“爱”这个字或许用得不恰当。“我的意思是‘魔力’(magic) 吗？Magic原来的意思是‘邪恶的东西，近似巫术和妖术’。它还有那种意思吗？或者如今它的意思是由上下文控制的吗？我们能想象出有表示magic好的内涵的上下文吗？‘内涵’的意义是什么？”

我之所以教书，因为与开始呼吸的人们相处，我有时相当着魔地发现，我与他们一起惊叹。◇

1. 皮特是彼得的昵称。—译注

2. 拉尔夫.沃尔多.爱默生 （Ralph Waldo Emerson）：（1803 - 1882），美国散文家、诗人、思想家、演说家和美国19世纪超验主义文学运动的主要代表，强调人的价值，提倡个性绝对自由和社会改革。著有《论自然》、《诗集》等。 —译注

3. 亨利.戴维.梭罗（Henry David Thoreau）：（1817 - 1862），美国作家。主张回归自然，超现实主义者，曾隐居在沃尔登湖畔。著有《沃尔登湖》。—译注

4. 奥尔德斯.伦纳德.赫胥黎 (Aldous Leonard Huxley )：（1894 - 1963），美籍英国作家，英国博物学家T.H. 赫胥黎之孙。所写小说被称为“概念小说”。—译注

5. 亚利山德里娜.维多利亚 (Alexandrina Victoria): (1819 - 1901) 英国女王 (1837 - 1901) 及印度女王。即位后英国加紧向外扩张，建立庞大的殖民地，工商业亦迅速发展，一些英国史学家称“维多利亚时代”为英国历史上的“黄金时代”。她的责任感和严格的道德规范对英国社会产生重大影响。—译注

6. 在这两句话中 ("I was there when she came back. I was there when she told me, years later ...")，作者重复使用了"I was there"来表示他不仅人在场，更重要的是，学生需要时他乐意提供力所能及的帮助。"I was there"或"He was there"或"I'll be here"等通常表示被言及的人可信赖并乐于提供所需的精神上或物质上等多方面的支持与帮助。—译注

7. 这里的“泥土”是指《圣经》中上帝用来造人的泥土。—译注

ref.:http://chinese.usembassy-china.org.cn/jl0404_why.html

http://chinese.usembassy-china.org.cn/jl0404_reason.html