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It was my first year teaching, 1957, and I had as much to learn as the children. I took it personally if any child was not learning well. I felt it must be something I was doing wrong. We repeated and repeated lessons until the bright students were bored, and the slower ones were just beginning to get a glimmer of what was expected. Then I'd pile on the Homework, and check it carefully to see who was still having difficulty.

In that Grade Two class, there was one boy I'll always remember. His name was Robbie and he looked like a cherub who was hopelessly lost. He was blond, with big blue eyes the color of a midsummer sky. The problems he was having with academics didn't affect his disposition. He was always pleasant, and tried to do his best. He was reading at a beginning first-grade level and was finding the intricacies of addition and subtraction a real challenge. We worked with bottle caps, buttons, even arranged and rearranged the other children, and he was making progress. However, as soon as it was just numbers on paper he had to work with, he was lost again.

In one area, Robbie shone. He was a model of neatness. He always won the prize for the neatest desk, when I ran a surprise spot check. His printing work was beautiful; he could print more neatly than I could. He excelled in coloring, an important skill in Grade Two: he never went over the lines. His other Art work was also very well done, not particularly creative, but cutting and pasting projects were carefully and almost perfectly completed.

In spite of the restless nights I spent worrying about Robbie's lack of progress, the year passed and he was promoted on age. He was a tall boy and would have been really out of place among the little Grade Ones coming in. No one could guarantee that he'd learn more if he was kept back another year anyway. I felt badly and suffered from guilt whenever I thought about Robbie long afterward.

One day, about twenty years later, I met Robbie while shopping at the mall. He was still tall, very good-looking, and was pushing an angelic-looking little blond boy with sky-blue eyes, in a stroller. With much trepidation, I asked him what he did for a living. He said he was working in a large automotive factory in town, sweeping the floor and keeping his area tidy. With typical openness, he told me his salary. He was earning more than I was at teaching!

Thus I learned one of the most important lessons of my career. A child doesn't necessarily need to succeed in school to succeed in life. The secret is to discover their gift, a specialty at which they excel and concentrate on that. Robbie's kind and industrious nature had enabled him to acquire a wife and start a family. His talent for being neat and orderly led to an excellent job with a superior benefit package which will look after him for life.

Everyone has at least one area in which they excel. Some are lucky and find it early in life; for others the discovery may come later. When you find it, either in yourself or in your children, make it the focus of your endeavors. Learn as much about it as you can, practice your skill, position yourself around people and places where your skill is practiced and appreciated. You'll find that opportunities for success will present themselves, and you'll be ready to grab them.

And, your success may be in an area that the teachers never thought of when you were in school.

Learn more about this author, Carolyn Tytler.
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