The first teacher is not only the one who gave you your first knowledge, but also the one who instilled in you a love for school and learning. This man plays a big role in everyone's destiny, and we should be grateful to him for everything he did for us.
I remember the first time I went to school. His eyes were drooping from lack of sleep, a heavy backpack weighed down his shoulders, and large white bows adorned his head. Walking around in uniform was terribly uncomfortable, I had difficulty standing on the line, and I wanted to give a beautiful bouquet of flowers to someone. “I won’t come to this strange, scary place again,” I thought about school then. I didn’t want to get up every day at six in the morning, much less study.
That day I met her - Maria Alekseevna. She was to become our first teacher, the class teacher of grade 1 “B”. To be honest, at first glance I didn’t like her. I looked at her and thought that I had never seen a nastier and angrier person. But as often happens with children, my first impression was false. Maria Alekseevna turned out to be a kind and sympathetic woman. She loved children very much and really tried to teach us something, and didn’t do it for show. She never shouted, tried to explain the material clearly, and conducted warm-ups, games and open lessons with us.
The first knowledge was difficult for me, I didn’t want to learn, I didn’t have any motivation. But Maria Alekseevna was not angry, she calmly explained the topic to the class, and then explained the points I did not understand. With her help, I gained my first knowledge, first A's, and, most importantly, a desire to learn. It was only thanks to Maria Alekseevna that I went to school with pleasure, which I still do to this day. Lessons are no longer a problem for me, I grasp all the material on the fly, without a word. Words cannot express how grateful I am to this woman who managed to interest me and teach me to study.
What is my opinion about the first teachers? I think that they play a big role in our lives, if not the main one. First teachers are an important stage of growing up that needs to be respected.
Essay on the topic My first teacher
I remember that when I had not yet gone to school, I was very afraid who my teacher would be. After all, this is exactly the person you need to listen to. Mom was also very worried about what my first teacher would be like. We were waiting for this day when we would see him and be able to finally meet him in person.
And here it is, the day has come. The first of September - everyone is beautiful and smiling everywhere. It’s very exciting to stand waiting and even a little scary. And not even because there are a lot of unfamiliar faces around me. It was just important for me to see the teacher and get to know him. And finally, the moment has come. I see him, my first teacher.
A radiant smile and kind eyes. Our acquaintance went well, we all got to know each other and were told about what awaited us. The first impression of him was positive. The teacher's tone was calm and pleasant, which did not carry any negativity. In the following school days, I wanted to talk more with the teacher, ask something or tell something. But my embarrassment and fear came first. On a certain day, I don’t remember what happened, but then I was sitting at my desk alone, and the teacher came up to me. This is an incredible person who helped lift my spirits and support me in a certain situation. I have never felt as much kindness and warmth as from him from anyone else.
I will always remember my first teacher. I will not forget how I waited with trepidation and excitement for his arrival. With a smile on my face, I remember how afraid I was to talk to him for the first time, or to ask him something. In fact, he was a very friendly person who would never refuse and would understand at a glance. Of course, he also knew how to get angry. But this is entirely our fault. Memories of him are only positive and I am glad that I came across just such a teacher.
1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 11th grade
Several interesting essays
- The image and characteristics of Tatyana Larina in the novel Eugene Onegin by Pushkin essay
In his novel “Eugene Onegin,” A.S. Pushkin recreated all the ideas about the ideal Russian girl, creating the image of Tatyana, who was his favorite heroine.
- The image and characteristics of Kirill Troekurov in Pushkin’s work Dubrovsky essay 6th grade
The novel “Dubrovsky” is one of the most striking and original works of Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. It masterfully depicts the typical characters of its time
- Analysis of the fight between Mtsyri and the leopard
Analyzing the poem “Mtsyri” by M. Yu. Lermontov, the first thing that comes to mind is the fight between the main character and the leopard. This episode in the work is key and fully reveals its meaning - freedom is more valuable than life in captivity.
- Analysis of Nabokov's work The Word
This work, written in 1923, in exile, is imbued with nostalgia and is dedicated to the theme of the Motherland, which worried the author.
The history of the Don Cossacks goes back centuries. During the time of Ivan the Terrible, the Cossacks fought with the Crimean Khan, Queen Catherine loved the Cossacks, they enjoyed great privileges
Nomination “About pedagogy - with love”
A teacher is one of the most ancient professions on earth. Many good, warm words have been said about teachers, many songs and poems have been written about them. The image of a teacher is always bright. The image of the first teacher especially sticks in my heart. And for good reason!
The words from the song “My First Teacher...” have long become an aphorism. Among the many wonderful teachers who work with children at school, a special place is given to her - the first teacher. Children always remember their first teacher with warmth. Why? I will tell you about one such teacher, and draw your own conclusions.
The little man who crosses the threshold of school needs a good friend and mentor! The one who will help him overcome the fear of the unknown that awaits the baby there, beyond the school threshold! The one who will help make a very important discovery, whose name is KNOWLEDGE.
This is the kind of teacher I want to talk about. Petrova Marina Stepanovna has been working at the school for 27 years. Many of her students have already graduated from school. Some of them brought their children to this teacher.
Marina Stepanovna tries to give her students not only knowledge. She strives to instill in them such human qualities as honesty, kindness, and decency. The kids are drawn to Marina Stepanovna and love her. She has a word of consolation for everyone, she will encourage and pity everyone. Like the sun that warms even the smallest blade of grass on earth, Marina Stepanovna bestows her warmth on her students.
She helps children to reveal their personal potential, to feel happy in the knowledge that they are always nearby with an understanding adult friend, a teacher who helps them see and develop in children the inclinations of abilities that are inherent in nature. For this person, it is important to reveal the inner world of each child, his personal qualities.
I believe that our children are very lucky: they met a teacher who believed in their talent, their abilities, and opened the door to the world of children’s feelings, thoughts, relationships, and perceptions. More than once, students from our class took part in creative competitions at various levels. More than once they justified the trust of their teacher, confirming their knowledge.
In our small school, Marina Stepanovna became the first teacher to win the competition for the best teachers of the Russian Federation, which is held as part of the national project “Education”. Most recently she was awarded the title “Veteran of Labor”. In addition, she was awarded many times with certificates of honor and letters of gratitude for her conscientious work. But the most honorable reward for her is the love of her students. And this love, like a pure source, will never dry up.
A story about the first teacher. Vera Prokhorovna Bessonova. Memories of school. Congratulations on September 1st. Gennady Lyubashevsky.
Dear colleagues, friends!
The calendar summer is ending. And I immediately remember the lines from the song: “Autumn is coming, it’s August outside the windows”...
But the first day of autumn will be remembered for the rest of our lives precisely because on September 1 we became first-graders. Remember how it was?
Of course, each of us has our own memories, but the holiday - Day of Knowledge - is common. Let us congratulate each other, our children and grandchildren on this wonderful holiday and once again remember our mentors who gave us a start in life.
Happy holiday everyone! New creative success to you!
Teacher! Before your name
Let me humbly kneel.
N. A. Nekrasov
“The first teacher”... I wrote these words on a blank sheet of paper, slowly and carefully, as I once wrote out the letters in a school handwriting notebook. And he stopped. The hand hung over the sheet. What to write about next? After all, I have long wanted to write about her - about his first teacher Vera Prokhorovna Bessonova. And now I can’t put together fragments of phrases and thoughts. There is so much I want to say, but there are not enough words...
My first teacher... A person who, invisibly, like a guardian angel, has always been and will be next to me, who largely determined my fate and the fate of my classmates. Thanks to her, we became friends back in 1956, we have carefully preserved our friendship for more than 55 years and will cherish it as long as our hearts beat.
We called Vera Prokhorovna our second mother, and she addressed us only as “children.” These children have long since become grandfathers and grandmothers, but for her we always remained children, her children. We often came to her in her small room in a communal apartment, and this room, like many years ago, was filled with our voices. We brought her photographs of our wives and husbands, our children and grandchildren. She knew everything about us, even things that our parents sometimes didn’t know. We are used to confiding in her our little children’s secrets first, and then our big adult secrets. We brought her flowers for her birthday, for March 8, for Teacher's Day, and for Passover - matzo, which she called “Jewish bread” and ate instead of bread because she had diabetes. Our classmates living in Israel or visiting relatives there always brought medicines and sugar substitutes from there and did not forget to carefully peel off the price labels. We could afford much more, but she herself did not allow us to do so. Only once, when Vera Prokhorovna turned 80, we gathered not at her house, but in a cafe and brought our teacher there in a big black car. Then, in 2003, her anniversary coincided with Teacher's Day. At the holiday table, we, the former kids whom she taught from 1956 to 1960, said so many good words to her that the waitress later confessed: “I listened and cried.”
Since childhood, we knew by heart all the nooks and crannies of her yard and the number of steps along which we climbed to her top, fifth floor. Some of us were lucky enough to climb the steps of life's ladder to the very top, some reached the middle, and some stumbled and remained far below. That's how life worked out. But none of us ever felt this difference - that’s what she taught us. We were equal before her and before each other: Olympic champion Yura Lagutin and mechanic Arkasha Kolyada, Chairman of the Leninsky District Administration Vova Kiyanitsa and hairdresser Sveta Kovaleva, Honored Trainer of Ukraine Lenya Tsybulsky and blacksmith Zhenya Mishevsky, artists Vova Gorodissky and Tolik Nekupny, lawyer Valya Tavtelev and Vitya Denisov, who broke the law, but was still not rejected by us. We were always children to her. Perhaps because Vera Prokhorovna lost her only 3-year-old son when she was still a very young woman, she was so drawn to us, her boys and girls. Or maybe she had a very big heart...
All of us, future first-graders, lived not far from our school - the old school No. 2, which turned 100 years old in 2005. In this school, Vera Prokhorovna worked as a primary school teacher from 1949 until her retirement. The building in which our school used to be still stands between the church and Heroes of Stalingrad Street in the Small Market area. Then this street was called Shkolnaya. There were only 8 classrooms in the building for 33 classes. In one corner of the corridor there is a library, in the other there is a corner where lessons in labor, singing, and drawing were held. The toilet is outside. The building is cold. But there was a large yard where we played football during breaks and after school.
The last summer days of distant 1956... Back to school soon. But you can still run around the streets for a few days, look over the fence into the neighbor’s garden, tease the dog, or sit on the seat of the semi-truck in which the neighbor came home for lunch. Our settlement with crooked streets (even the neighboring lane was called Krivoy) and old rickety houses from the times of pre-revolutionary Aleksandrovsk, a flea market, popularly called Tucha, boys’ raids on the copter shop of Zaporozhstal, where among the scrap metal one could easily find weapons from the times of an as yet unforgotten war. We did not always have a well-fed, but happy childhood. There was no pile of stone boxes around and asphalt underfoot. And the boys played not computer games, but football, “knives” or “knockout”, tossed a piece of fur with a lead weight with their feet - a “lightweight” - and counted who could “hit” the most. And some of the older guys were already casting brass knuckles from lead. And the apple plucked from the branch smelled of an apple, and not of overseas devilry, and one side of the apple was warmer than the other, because the sun had heated it. In a pile of sand one could find a coin from 1736 with the strange name “denga”, and in the attic one could find a gramophone pipe and a pre-revolutionary edition of Lermontov’s poems. Going to the cinema with the whole family was in the order of things, but there were simply no televisions then.
Our family was serious about raising children. And the fact that the boy could read and write long before entering first grade, played chess with his dad, and painted with his mother, was considered in the order of things at our house. One August day, when Vera Prokhorovna was walking around her future pets, getting to know them and their families, I was able to demonstrate to her my abilities. And our family became close to Vera Prokhorovna for many, many years. How many years have passed since that memorable day, and my dad never forgot to call Vera Prokhorovna, congratulate her on the holiday, and inquire about her health. And I did the same.
And now this long-awaited day has come - September 1st! Already lying on the chair are the striped “weekend” “Swede”, ironed by my mother, and the black panties with braces, which my grandmother for some reason called “harnesses”. And grandpa walks with pruning shears around a huge bush of dahlias and chooses the most beautiful ones. Dad is taking me to school. From this day on, this is his area of responsibility. Throughout all my years of study, in all the schools my brother and I visited, my dad was on the parent committee. Naturally, I later also became the chairman of the parent committee at the school where my daughter studied. How could it have been different?
The school yard is full of people, surrounded by flowers. And here is our teacher. Very young, stately, beautiful. She pins a paper diamond on each of us with 1 “A” written on it. That's it, we are already first graders! First, as usual, there is a short rally, then we are taken to take pictures. Here is this photo. Our whole class. My dear classmates. The faces are not from an electronic site, but from life. The photograph shows that life was not at all easy for many families: the children were dressed, although festively, modestly. Only some of the girls have white aprons and white satin bows. And everyone has tense anticipation on their face. What will happen to all of us tomorrow, the day after tomorrow? We sit around our teacher like little chicks. How young we were...
We studied together with Vera Prokhorovna for only four years. Four years of primary school and throughout life. Our first teacher belonged to that tribe of selfless and infinitely devoted people to their profession who are called “unsung heroes.” Hundreds of students grew up before her eyes, they calmly and confidently entered adulthood, and the children of many of them came to school with the same Vera Prokhorovna. She was able to discern individuality and hidden talent in everyone. At one of the first lessons, Vera Prokhorovna handed us a piece of paper and said: “Draw what you know.” The boys drew airplanes and cars, the girls - dolls and houses. And Vova Kiyanitsa drew such a tank that everyone gasped. The teacher took him, Tolya Nekukupny and Vova Gorodissky by the hands and led them to the art studio of the Palace of Pioneers. Gorodissky and Nekukupny did become professional artists (Volodya was even an Honored Artist of Ukraine), I also went to Ivan Fedorovich Fedyanin’s art studio, but Kiyanitsa and I did not have the chance to become artists.
All the boys wanted to play sports and kicked the ball around in the schoolyard until dark. I was shorter than others and usually took a place in the goal. Then the time came for me to become interested in sambo wrestling. An example for us was the famous Tsybulski dynasty in the city. One of its representatives was our classmate Lenya. (We are sitting next to him in our first general photo). And we lived nearby. Lenya has always been a man of the broadest soul and exceptional charm. And he achieved great success in sports, becoming a famous judo coach. The future Olympic handball champion Yura Lagutin, Volodya Maryanovsky, and many other of our boys connected their lives with sports. And Vera Prokhorovna put a piece of her soul into all of us.
It would seem that she taught us the same school curriculum as other teachers. And, nevertheless, there was some secret in the fact that the noisiest and most reckless suburban boys sat in her lessons decorously and quietly, greedily catching her every word. Of course, we were not angels. But Vera Prokhorovna had her own special approach to each of us; she found her own special words for each of us. She was truly like a mother. And we tried to repay her with our love, to provide childishly naive but sincere signs of attention. Vera Prokhorovna’s hands ached, cold since the war, when she was taken to Germany as a girl. She managed to escape from the camp, but the memory of the war remained for the rest of her life. And then one day she asked us to catch some bees for her (someone advised her to treat herself with bee venom). The next morning, almost the entire class came to class with matchboxes, from which the deep hum of small insects could be heard, and proudly piled a bunch of boxes on the teacher's table. A small but striking fact from our daily life. Our beloved teacher lived this life with us, taught her students, as they said then, to master knowledge and engage in socially useful work, and not “for show,” but seriously, for real. Whether it was collecting waste paper or scrap metal, a trip to the Kakhovka Sea or riding an airplane for the first time in her life, she was always with us.
Of course, the children had different abilities and inclinations. But Vera Prokhorovna, in some incomprehensible way, was able to discern in each of us the main thing that later determined our future destiny.
There were a lot of funny situations in our lessons. I remember the case with Yura Lagutin. There was a dictation in the Ukrainian language, Vera Prokhorovna, in her clearly defined “teacher” voice, pronounced word by word, after each word followed: “coma” (in Russian “comma”), and Yura conscientiously wrote down in the notebook every word from the dictation plus the word “ coma”... We made fun of it a lot later. However, this did not prevent Yura from becoming the Olympic handball champion in Munich in 1972. Alas, the consequences of a serious injury led to his untimely death...
Since I remembered Yura, I’ll tell you that one day, when I went to visit our classmate and his cousin Ira, I saw on the wall a picture of Pushkin mortally wounded in a duel. I stood for several minutes at the small canvas, shocked by how the artist conveyed the suffering of the great poet. The author of the painting was Ira’s father, an amateur artist. This picture still stands before my eyes...
Our class was international. But we all, regardless of nationality, felt like we were in one big family. And this is the undoubted merit of our first teacher. For the rest of my life I will remember the words of Vera Prokhorovna, once said during a “class hour”: “Children! Here Igor Gipsman is Jewish by nationality, Valya Tavtelev is Tatar, Vera Yatselenko is Ukrainian, Vitya Denisov is Russian. But we all live in a country called the Soviet Union, and we are all equal citizens of this great country, regardless of our nationality. You should be friends with each other and help each other." Prophetic words of a great woman and a great Teacher! We still remember them sacredly. We will always remember. We will pass it on to our children and grandchildren. And on a mournful autumn day in 2008, we, her children, came to see off our beloved teacher on her last journey. Our multinational class.
The last time we went into her room, where our photographs hung on the walls and where our cheerful voices would never sound again. The last time we stood at her entrance, sheltering from the piercing wind and not hiding our wet eyes from each other. And when the coffin was taken out of the entrance, a strange man suddenly came out from behind a tree, as if disembodied and detached from the world. Poorly dressed, in some kind of ridiculous short coat, on his hands - thread gloves with cut off fingers, under his arm - something wrapped in a rag. No one had seen him before. It was as if he appeared out of thin air. The stranger unwrapped the rag and... brought the violin to his shoulder. I have heard and seen many great musicians. But I have never heard such an extraordinary performance. Probably, the Lord sent his angel to us to receive the soul of our teacher to the divine sounds of the violin. The melody of Sviridov from the music to Pushkin’s story “The Snowstorm” sounded.
I want to tell you about my teacher.
In our village there is a small school with the best teachers. They all love their students, just as we love them. But each of us has a teacher to whom the student treats differently than others.
For me, the best teacher is my class teacher. Maybe it’s because she really treats us more closely, but she loves everyone equally.
Maria Mikhailovna is an amazing person. Her smile never leaves her face, she is always cheerful and energetic. I especially like it when she comes into class and says: “Hello, my dears!” These are the warmest and most frank words of the teacher, which make the students feel good in their souls. Maybe with her kindness and affection she warms us, so it’s surprisingly pleasant for us to be with her. And during the time spent with her, you get a drop of happiness and pleasure. She is like a mother to us, who always supports and loves us, protects us like her own children. Only with her you always want to laugh and enjoy something.
We must respect and value the work of every teacher. After all, they open the door to the future for us, sowing the rational, the good, the eternal, and we must always remember this.
Zuykova Tatyana.
OUR COOL.
THE COOLEST.
In our seventh grade, the class teacher is. She teaches Russian language and literature. She has been working with us for almost three years. During this time, Maria Mikhailovna became our mother, friend, and irreplaceable person. We turn to her on various issues, and for each of us she has time, words, and support.
We spend most of our time at school. And with us is our Maria Mikhailovna. She has been teaching at school for a long time. She has extensive experience working with children, parents, and colleagues.
Maria Mikhailovna conducts all school events with us, gives advice, for us she is a close, dear person.
Maria Mikhailovna is a very good housewife. Her house is always clean and cozy. She is a good cook. We were treated to a delicious homemade cake. She really adores flowers. We have a lot of them in our class, like in a botanical garden.
Maria Mikhailovna has no favorites. Which is not unimportant for us. To her we are all the same. That's why we love her.
The work of a teacher is difficult, you need to give all of yourself to the children. And she gives. This is our cool one. She's very cool!
This poem is dedicated to Maria Mikhailovna:
Teacher, for your life, as one,
You dedicate it to the school family.
You are everyone who came to you to study,
You call them your children.
But children grow up, from school
Walking the roads of life
And your lessons are remembered,
And they keep you in their hearts.
Favorite teacher, dear person,
Be the happiest in the world
Even though sometimes it’s hard for you
Your naughty children.
You rewarded us with friendship and knowledge,
Accept our gratitude!
We remember how you brought us into the public eye
From timid, funny first-graders.
M. Sadovsky.
Work completed
7th grade student
October school
Very briefly: At the dawn of Soviet power, a young, illiterate guy comes to an village in the Kazakh steppe and founds a school, opening up a new world for local children.
The composition of the work is built on the principle of a story within a story. The initial and final chapters represent the artist’s reflections and memories, the middle is the main character’s story about her life. The entire narration is told in the first person: the first and last parts are from the narrator’s point of view, the middle is from the academician’s point of view.
The artist is planning to paint a picture, but cannot yet choose a theme for it. He remembers his childhood in the village of Kurkureu, in the Kazakh steppe. The main symbol of my native place appears before my eyes - two large poplars on a hillock. This bare hillock in the village is called the “school of Duishen”. Once upon a time, a certain Komsomol member decided to organize a school there. Now one name remains.
The artist receives a telegram - an invitation to the opening of a new school in the village. There he meets the pride of Kurkureu - academician Altynai Sulaymanovna Sulaymanova. After the ceremonial part, the director invites the collective farm activists and the academician to his place. Telegrams of congratulations were brought from former students: Duishen brought them. Now he delivers mail. Duishen himself does not come to the party: he must finish his work first.
Now many people remember with a grin his idea with the school: he, they say, did not know the whole alphabet himself. The elderly academician blushes at these words. She hastily leaves for Moscow that same day. Later she writes a letter to the artist and asks him to convey her story to people.
In 1924, young Duishen appears in the village and wants to open a school. He puts the barn on the hill in order with his own efforts.
Orphan Altynai lives in the family of an aunt who is burdened by the girl. The child sees only insults and beatings. She starts going to school. Duishen's affectionate attitude and kind smile warms her soul.
During the lesson, the teacher shows the children a portrait of Lenin. For Duishen, Lenin is a symbol of the bright future of ordinary people. Altynai recalls that time: “I think about it now and am amazed: how this illiterate guy, who himself had difficulty reading syllables, ... how could he dare to do such a truly great thing!.. Duishen did not have the slightest idea about the program and teaching methods... Without knowing it, he accomplished a feat... for us, Kyrgyz children, who had never been anywhere outside the village,... suddenly an unprecedented world opened up... "
In the cold, Duishen carried children in his arms and on his back to wade across an icy river. Rich people, passing by at such moments in fox robes and sheepskin coats, laughed contemptuously at him.
In winter, on the night of the teacher’s return from the volost, where he went for three days every month, the aunt drives Altynai out to her distant relatives - the old men Saikal and Kartanbai. Duishen lived with them at that time.
In the middle of the night, a “nasal, guttural howl” is heard. Wolf! And not alone. Old man Kartanbai realized that the wolves were surrounding someone - a person or a horse. At this moment, Duishen appears at the door. Altynai cries behind the stove with happiness that the teacher has returned alive.
In the spring, the teacher and Altynai plant two “young bluish-trunked poplars” on a hillock. Duishen believes that the girl’s future is in learning and wants to send her to the city. Altynay looks at him with admiration: “a new, unfamiliar feeling from a world still unknown to me rose in my chest like a hot wave.”
Soon an aunt comes to school with a red-faced man who recently appeared in their house. Red-faced and two other horsemen beat Duishen, who was protecting the girl, and take Altynai away by force. Her aunt gave her as a second wife. At night, the red-faced man rapes Altynai. In the morning, a bandaged Duishen with policemen appears in front of the yurt, and the rapist is arrested.
Two days later, Duishen takes Altynai to the station - she will study at a Tashkent boarding school. The teacher, with his eyes full of tears, shouts “Altynai!” to the departing train, as if he forgot to say something important.
In the city of Altynai he studies at the workers' faculty, then in Moscow at the institute. In the letter, she confesses to Duishen that she loves him and is waiting for him. This ends their correspondence: “I think that he refused me and himself because he did not want to interfere with my studies.”
The war begins. Altynai learns that Duishen has joined the army. There is no more news about him.
After the war, she travels on a train across Siberia. In the window, Altynay sees Duishen in the switchman and breaks the stop valve. But the woman misidentified herself. People from the train think that she saw her husband or brother who died in the war and sympathize with Altynai.
Years pass. Altynai is marrying a good man: “We have children, a family, we live together. I am now a Doctor of Philosophy.”
She writes to the artist about what happened in the village: “...it was not I who should have been given all sorts of honors, it was not I who should have sat in the place of honor at the opening of a new school. First of all, our first teacher had this right... - old Duishen... I want to go to Curcureu and invite people there to call the new boarding school “Duishen’s school.”
Impressed by the story of Altynai, the artist thinks about the painting that has not yet been painted: “... my contemporaries, how can I make sure that my idea not only reaches you, but becomes our common creation?” He chooses which of the episodes told by the academician to depict on his canvas.
