Boy Who Made It Rain Read Online Free
Author: Brian Conaghan
Tags: Romance, Crime, Young Adult, bullying, juvenile, knife
recognised that Clem wasnât altogether charmed by the idea of heading up north. Well, who would at such a tender age? Leaving behind all his friends, his school and, in actuality, his culture. It would take a much determined and strong willed young person to cope with such a drastic alteration in life. Donât get me wrong it wasnât as though he was dreading the prospect either. I found him to be a young chap full of wanderlust and inquisitiveness. I can recall a conversation we had about the impending scene in which I openly encouraged him to approach his new life in Glasgow as a kind of anthropological adventure. I strived to remove any notion of trepidation he had in his mind. I saw this counselling, if you would like to refer to it as such, as an integral part of my position. I suppose in many ways I failed in that respect. I have subsequently cursed my prognosis.
Oh, yes, yes. A model student. A model student. He, along with a great many of my students, had an impressive appetite for knowledge. He devoured books, all kinds of literature. Like many boys of that age, he had a considerable zest for the work of the beat poets, however he wasnât limited to that. He approached their work with a great deal of fervour. What was impressive was that he didnât make the mistake that many others have made over the years, in that he didnât eulogise over the poems and/or the poets. He respected the writing, certainly, but he was also astute enough to distance himself from the work with a critical eye. He could effectively articulate why he liked a certain book or poem and, conversely, why he didnât.
Oh, my apologies. Unfortunately pounding the desk is an insufferable habit I have picked up over the years. It generated enormous hilarity in many of my classes. How can I hope to instil passion in my students if I myself have none? For my wifeâs sake, I am happy to report this habit doesnât extend to the family abode. Passion is important. Yet, there is a marked distinction between passion and, well, passion. A notable dichotomy. Excuse my floundering.
He was a joy to teach. A joy. An energetic participant in class, always active, always consistent in his comportment.
Itâs all unfathomable, isnât it?
In trying to account for a significant raison dâêtre I can only assume that, perhaps, too many of my lessons were rather too male orientated, aggressive and testosterone filled. I am referring to the writers and the literature studied. I have therefore posed the question to myself: were we, I, subconsciously objectifying the female and, in doing so, heightening masculine prowess and control? If that is the case then I fully acknowledge and accept responsibility. Mea Culpa as they say. Furthermore, on a more philosophical level, is one inherently bad or is it merely a question of nature or nurture? It certainly is food for thought I should think. What is to become of our education structures? Of our professional integrity? Obviously, I have no expertise on the education system in Scotland, but I am still puzzled how this could have happened. In fact more astonished and saddened than puzzled. Itâs the waste of future hopes and aspirations. Saddened indeed.
Mr Cunninghamâs Mistrust
Listen, Iâm not a fool. I can probably tell you what Pauline Croal said. Obviously not verbatim but Iâd wager Iâd get close to the gist of it; that we were all a shower of unfriendly dullards, set in our ways, devoid of any enthusiasm with regards to our profession. As Head of English at the school for years, I've heard this many times. Iâd like to see the state of her after five, or so, years in this job.
Christ, these new teachers make me laugh, they waltz in here with their glistening teaching diplomas still warm in their pockets, revolutionary methods and heads full of ideology, then one of the first things they do is start shouting their mouths off, barking complaints
Oh, yes, yes. A model student. A model student. He, along with a great many of my students, had an impressive appetite for knowledge. He devoured books, all kinds of literature. Like many boys of that age, he had a considerable zest for the work of the beat poets, however he wasnât limited to that. He approached their work with a great deal of fervour. What was impressive was that he didnât make the mistake that many others have made over the years, in that he didnât eulogise over the poems and/or the poets. He respected the writing, certainly, but he was also astute enough to distance himself from the work with a critical eye. He could effectively articulate why he liked a certain book or poem and, conversely, why he didnât.
Oh, my apologies. Unfortunately pounding the desk is an insufferable habit I have picked up over the years. It generated enormous hilarity in many of my classes. How can I hope to instil passion in my students if I myself have none? For my wifeâs sake, I am happy to report this habit doesnât extend to the family abode. Passion is important. Yet, there is a marked distinction between passion and, well, passion. A notable dichotomy. Excuse my floundering.
He was a joy to teach. A joy. An energetic participant in class, always active, always consistent in his comportment.
Itâs all unfathomable, isnât it?
In trying to account for a significant raison dâêtre I can only assume that, perhaps, too many of my lessons were rather too male orientated, aggressive and testosterone filled. I am referring to the writers and the literature studied. I have therefore posed the question to myself: were we, I, subconsciously objectifying the female and, in doing so, heightening masculine prowess and control? If that is the case then I fully acknowledge and accept responsibility. Mea Culpa as they say. Furthermore, on a more philosophical level, is one inherently bad or is it merely a question of nature or nurture? It certainly is food for thought I should think. What is to become of our education structures? Of our professional integrity? Obviously, I have no expertise on the education system in Scotland, but I am still puzzled how this could have happened. In fact more astonished and saddened than puzzled. Itâs the waste of future hopes and aspirations. Saddened indeed.
Mr Cunninghamâs Mistrust
Listen, Iâm not a fool. I can probably tell you what Pauline Croal said. Obviously not verbatim but Iâd wager Iâd get close to the gist of it; that we were all a shower of unfriendly dullards, set in our ways, devoid of any enthusiasm with regards to our profession. As Head of English at the school for years, I've heard this many times. Iâd like to see the state of her after five, or so, years in this job.
Christ, these new teachers make me laugh, they waltz in here with their glistening teaching diplomas still warm in their pockets, revolutionary methods and heads full of ideology, then one of the first things they do is start shouting their mouths off, barking complaints
Readers choose
Nicholson Baker
Katharine Kerr
Ann Lee Miller
Ellen Meloy
J.R. Thornton
Shaheen Ashraf-Ahmed
Maria Hudgins
Jane Feather
Jon E. Lewis