If you’re reading this, as the saying goes, then thank a teacher. Who knows where or how you went to school. Maybe at home, a public school, Montessori – whatever. If you can read this, then thank a teacher. You didn’t come into this world knowing how to read – that’s for sure. Somebody, somewhere, did some heavy lifting to get you to this point.
These sentiments are easy for me – my mom was a teacher. Darned good one if I don’t say so myself. Her brother, my uncle was a gifted educator as is my own brother. My great aunt was a legendary teacher in Detroit
So it was, growing up surrounded by all these great teachers and my mom’s equally great teacher friends, it always seemed to me that teaching was more of vitality than a vocation. Some rare element in teachers that moved their blood just the same as their hearts did. A college professor once referred to it as a “raison d’être.” Literally, a reason to be.
So I have often reflected on my teachers with a sense of awe and wonder. I had really good teachers. Brilliant, passionate, gifted in the art of instruction and classroom leadership – I had way more good teachers than I ever had bad ones.
Those days are far behind me now. I recently looked at a picture of myself as a high school sophomore and did the math – curse you rotten math teachers for your commitment to my cypherin skills. Thirty one years ago. Yipes.
But with that passage of time comes a different appreciation, and expectation, of teachers. When I was a kid I literally thought the teachers lived at school and had little else to do in their lives than prepare the classroom, do the projects, and then, after the kids left, clean up and fix lunch for the day tomorrow. Truly, I thought this. There was always some weird closet door in the classroom that only the teacher could go in. In my 5 year old brain that was her house where she took her tea and ate her breakfast.
As I grew older and realized that my mom herself was a teacher, of course I realized that teachers had ordinary lives outside of school. But it wasn’t until I was a grown up, with an ordinary life of my own, that I realized how extraordinary this was with teachers.
We carry them with us, always, don’t we? That teacher who got us, who moved us or inspired us – they are forever fixed in our memory – they are the rocks in our streams. Familiar landmarks to all of us who traveled their way whether we did so 30 or 3 years ago. Unchanged and wonderful. That teacher did all that while at the same time worrying about mortgages and property taxes; retirement, their own kids, their own kids’ teachers, health, etc. They bore that burden the same as any other “grown up” yet when it came time to show up for class there was in him or her the ever present good cheer, inspiration, and professional investment despite what must have been mind-numbingly bad questions or a lack of preparation from us students.
So the other evening we were out shopping – the entire family running errands after a busy day. It was payday, which meant several different stops to help ensure the financial stability of the greater East Lansing area for another two weeks and dinner out at one of the kids’ favorite haunts (I had a two for one coupon so I was extra happy). One of our stops was at a local store whose 75,000 square feet of floor space holds not a single item of interest for a middle-aged man or two young children.
As such, faced with the options of waiting in the car plugged into my iPod with the kids, or riding herd over my brood in a store filled with crystal, china, and other breakables, I chose Angry Birds and the iPod without breaking much of a sweat. My wife went in and, after about a ten minute absence, returned with a huge smile on her face. She said to the ten year old in the back seat, “Michael, come with me, there is someone who wants to see you.”
I watched the two of them walk off thinking perhaps one of his buddies was in the store and wanted to say “hi.” But when he walked in, there, in what was an obvious show of genuine emotion, was his first grade teacher greeting him with arms wide open. She snatched him up in a big hug ruffled his hair and treated him as if he was the Prince of Persia. A wonderful professional whose handprints are on his soul for eternity, I am sure of it.
Having retired, she sought part time employment in this particular store to keep busy – something not unfamiliar to any of us. Everybody’s got bills to pay. Everybody has to head out into the weather, the traffic, the rat-race and make their way.
What I saw, observed through a storefront window in that gorgeous silent reunion between the champion teacher and her growing and earnest pupil was proof positive for me that for our teachers – our really good ones anyhow – teaching is breathing. It is vocational DNA – something some were just born to do. The students matter to them beyond getting them to the threshold of yet another summer. For that group of gifted educators, teaching is an activity entirely separate from getting dressed, going to work, collecting the pay check. It is, indeed, a reason to be.
So, for the fact that I can write this, I thank my teachers. If you can read this, then thank a teacher. And if you are a parent who trusts your children into the hands of people whose chosen path is one committed to your kids by lifting them up, showing them the way, making them soar – then rejoice. There are yet legions of ordinary people, living quiet lives I am sure in the little closet next to the pencil sharpener or in the corner of the gym or music room, who stand at the ready to take up just such a challenge.
Thank you, teachers, for answering the call of your reason to be.
So thanks for coming by my blog today. Wherever you are today, I hope you find a couple of minutes to get lost in thought, wandering the hall of some ancient yet familiar school where stand the professionals who believed in you, supported and encouraged you and committed themselves to the high goal of helping you achieve all you are capable of achieving.
Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com
