I Teach

When I “retired” in 2006, I didn’t; I mean I didn’t “retire,” not really. Ten years hence I’m ready to try it again.

My brother attended a prestigious military college in Vermont. To this day I do not know the price tag for that, but I do know that when it was my turn to go to college and I told my father I planned to major in elementary education, he said, “I’m not paying that kind of money so you can become a school teacher.” Ouch. 

40 years down the road

What he should have said was, “It doesn’t matter what it costs on the front end because when it’s all said and done, the next forty years in service to other people’s children will be priceless.” He didn't, but he did pay for four years at Salisbury State College, where with the help of a few very influential professionals and one remarkable woman, I earned the right to be called “teacher.”

Writing this on what, for now, is the last day of those forty years, I can remember a few significant moments--moments that resonated at the time and linger to this day. Moments like Dr. Jack Wulff looking around the room at the circle of teacher candidates and asking us a deceptively simple question: Why are you here? The only answer I remember is the one he seemed to be waiting to ambush. “If the only reason you’re here is because you love children, go do something else,” he replied. I can still hear the silence. He stared at us, and we stared back. He was waiting to hear what we might say, and we were wondering why anyone would risk getting his other foot shoved in.

I can remember sitting front row center at the graduation ceremony for the school of education at Towson University when after seven very challenging years, I finally earned my master’s degree. After months and months of arduous study and research, and after countless evenings drafting and editing my results in the university library, I sat there unsuccessfully trying not to allow my emotions to overtake me. I listened to Congressman Ben Cardin remind us of the importance of our profession, of the significance of those who would dare to stand and deliver. He said that if not for the service of teachers no one—not a single person in that auditorium—would be present. It was as if he were speaking directly to me. I strained to restrain my emotions as I heard sentence after sentence affirming my life as “teacher.” He insisted that we command the respect due; insisted that we know and demonstrate the genuine pride that comes with the title.  When I thought I could not hear another word without sucking air into my lungs, he said, “...and when they ask you what you do...you tell them, ‘I teach’.” 

I suspect that for most people who train for a particular job, whether it’s as a lawyer, an NFL quarterback or a school teacher, there comes a moment of reckoning--an honest moment of reflection when one faces both sides of the same coin: the realization that certain goals will remain unfulfilled OR a clear and present view of the future for which one had dreamed and only hoped. 

I can remember clearly a day very near to the end of my last semester at SSC, a day that seemed in all respects like any other, a day when Jack Wulff addressed a room full of his students. We had finished student-teaching (as it was then called) and, I suspect, all had our moments of reckoning. I don’t remember why he said it or even what led to it, but what came out of his mouth proved unforgettable to me. He said, “If you don’t think you are the very best who ever did this job, quit now.” Silence. “If you’re not sure that you can do it better than anyone else, walk away.” He paused then he said, “It’s too important. It matters too much.”

Here’s the thing: when he said it, I thought, “I do.” Seriously, I did, and I still do, but I should add that he asked me after that all-important moment of reckoning I mentioned. I know what my answer would have been as I sat more than once at the kitchen table long after midnight lesson planning or cutting letters, or making worksheets or staring at nothing, head-in-hand, wondering for how long I could keep it up, wondering if this was really what I wanted, wondering if I would ever be able to do this thing that I thought I wanted—if I would earn the title.

When he said what he said, I knew what he meant. Despite how it sounded, he wasn’t referring to an inflated, competitive ego that ranks one teacher’s abilities over another; no. He was asking us to confirm that we had, in fact, had that essential reckoning. Were we sure? Really sure? He asked because there would be more nights at the kitchen table. Many more. Many, many more. There would be countless days of frustration and hard, hard work. He was asking us—making us—look ahead to see the proverbial forest and not the trees; to see the Emerald City and not the yellow bricks—to know that time spent at the kitchen table in service to others is the price we pay in exchange for that title.

When I was a senior in high school I was given an opportunity to work at an elementary school, the result of which led me to right now. Forty years later I’m another kind of senior with yet another opportunity to do the same. In between I’ve had more job titles than most people even want. I’ve been team leader, department chairman, assistant principal, associate principal (whatever that is), and principal. (I also earned a few informal titles as well, the most memorable of which appeared on about a wheelbarrow load of junk mail addressed to FU Thanner. Clever; huh?) But the title I have cherished the most was the first, and as it happened, the last. 

To stand and deliver, to explain, to create, to encourage and inspire, to insist, to correct, and model, and yes, to sit alone (although no longer at 2:00) while designing whatever it takes to allow children to learn. To know them, to hug them, and with apologies to Dr. Wulff, to love them.

I teach.