Teaching: It’s not a career—it’s a lifestyle…
As I sit and ponder @MrsDSings’ blog challenge “Why Teach?”
I am overwhelmed by memories, thoughts, feelings. I will do my best to sift
through the chaff and present you with wheat.
I unabashedly and unreservedly believe in the power of
education to change lives. I believe in those epiphanies when the little ember
of learning is fanned into life and becomes the flame carried by a life-long
learner. I get high on those “a-ha” or “eureka!” moments. Those moments are my
drug. I truly get an adrenaline rush from class discussion, those unplanned
teaching moments, from walking around and talking one-on-one with students,
from winning students over to the “Dark Side” of reading for pleasure. Last
time I “performed” Patrick Henry’s “Speech to the Second Virginia Convention,”
I was so pumped, I had to pace around the room to work off the adrenaline (the
students thought it was hilariously awesome or awesomely hilarious).
Let me add a quick disclaimer: I am not perfect. I have made
some big mistakes in my teaching career, but with everything in me, I know this
is what I was born to do.
I won’t romanticize the career: it (along with parenting and
marriage) is the hardest thing I have ever tackled. There have been days when I
did not want to get out of bed; days where I questioned my job, my choices, my
career, my sanity, my life’s journey; days where I have curled up in the fetal
position and cried because my heart was broken for my students (and to a lesser
degree, myself), days where I thought any job must be better and easier than
teaching spoiled little brats who didn’t give a damn about anything except
their weekend plans.
But then…I read Othello
with my “at-risk” students, and we discuss current implications of racism and
discrimination and evil.
But then…my “at-risk” students realize they aren’t
second-class citizens—they matter as much as anyone. And, currently several of
them are married, with children, and working on their college degrees.
But then…I have a Black student loudly curse me out in
class. But I refuse to treat him like a problem or stereotype. I treat him like
the human he is--a human who is having a bad day and needs to rant-- and we become friends, and at 20 years old he walks across
that stage to get his high school diploma.
But then…I co-teach with a special education teacher so we
can include more students with disabilities in the regular ed classroom. We
allow homogenous grouping and see those “special needs” students become leaders
and push other special needs students to work harder and strive for better.
But then…that atheist student thanks me for standing up for
him, especially since he knows I’m a Christian. He tells me it’s the first time
a teacher told the class we would respect all beliefs and not treat anyone
disrespectfully.
But then…I see that student who has struggled with reading
and writing for his/her entire school career finally understand a piece of
literature because we read it in class and discussed it together, or he/she
successfully wrote an essay for the first time (and the student is in 11th
or 12th grade).
But then…that student who never thought he/she was good
enough for college realizes he/she actually could go and be successful. And
he/she finds comfort in the knowledge I will help in any way I humanly can.
But then…I hold a student’s head in my lap as she fights
throwing up: a scary thought as her jaws are wired shut. I must be prepared to
snip the wires so she doesn’t choke on her vomit—and I continue giving the rest
of the class background on The Crucible.
Later, I hold that same student’s hair back while she dry heaves in a trash can
at my desk, while leading a class discussion.
But then…I buy extra snacks to keep in my classroom so my
students know they can come to me for food (or band-aids or cough drops or a
place to cry or rant or talk through an issue).
But then…that student comes to me because he/she has been
molested and wants help taking action, and for some reason that student trusts
me.
But then…a student comes to me because he has thought about
killing himself, and he needs help. And again, as my heart is ripped from my
chest, he trusts me to help.
But then…that student shyly asks me to read his/her poetry.
Of course I agree, but I’m not looking forward to it. But I sit down and read
this student’s soul poured onto paper. Who cares if it’s “good”? It is beautiful
and real and brings me to my knees.
But then…that student tells me she is actually transgender
but wants me to still use feminine pronouns because part of his family doesn’t
know, and he can’t be open and honest in his community. And I take that student
out to eat, and there’s an agonizing moment when he ponders the backlash and
tries to decide which bathroom to use. Like a mother bear I firmly state, “You
choose which one you want. I will defend your choice to anyone who says
anything.” Again, I wonder what it is in me that inspires confidences and
trust.
But then…I take a student to buy clothes to prepare for
college. I also buy her make-up and give her lessons because mom has never been
around. We discuss why I will not allow her to wear band-aid colored bras! J
But then…each graduation rolls around, and I cry bittersweet
tears knowing I will no longer have that daily contact with my babies.
I teach because I know students need reading and writing.
They need to learn effective communication to be successful on any path they
choose. They need to learn about the big, wide world full of possibilities and
dreams and beauty. They also need to know about the ugliness and hatred and
discrimination—and how to fight those things. I teach so each student knows
he/she matters. I regularly tell my students, “You were unique simply by being
born. Each of you has a place and a voice in this world.
I do not share these anecdotes to laud myself. Rather I
share one teacher’s experiences among many. I get embarrassed when people thank
me or compliment my teaching because I am simply doing my job—what all teachers
should be doing, every day, in every classroom, for EVERY student. We should be
leading the charge against discrimination and making sure all students are
heard. That is why I teach.
I am not worthy, but every single day I strive to be my best
so I am worthy of this highest of callings: educating each one of my precious
babies.
