Why I Work- Part Two

     We passed the 10 day mark Wednesday at school. To those who don’t work in the school system, this milestone means nothing to you. For those of us who do, it means class changes, parent contacts, and common assessments need to be planned if not completed. This usually means the countdown to Thanksgiving has begun and we are no longer calling our students “the kid in the blue shirt,” but learning their names, their sports, and their enthusiasm (or lack of) about our given subject.

     This is the beginning of my seventh year teaching and, so far, so good. It’s shaping up to be a good year. And the older I get, the more serious I take my role as a teacher. I read Jodi Picoult’s book Nineteen Minutes over Labor Day weekend and have been haunted by the lives of the teenagers depicted in the novel. (If you work in a school, you need to read this book.) Every day this week, as my students have entered my classroom, I’ve wondered if they have a suicide stash tucked under their mattress or if extreme bullying is going on right under my nose. In light of the world some of these kids live in, sometimes teaching them to circle prepositional phrases is the easiest part of the job.

     As a high school teacher, I get to watch students experience the most exciting and important transition of their lives to date. I get to cry on their last day of high school and take a tiny bit of credit for the people they are going to be. If I’ve done my job right, I leave the slightest of fingerprints on the memories of their high school years. I was reminded of significance of my job last night as hung out with a 2010 graduate. (Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but the kids in that class were definitely mine.)

     Drew came over last night to visit and drop off a late wedding gift. I cooked dinner and we talked for hours. I half expected her to rush in, eat and rush out. A beautiful, young girl, fresh out of high school, probably has tons better things to do than hang out with me. But as the sun went down, we were still talking up a storm. Since Skip was out of town, she volunteered to spend the night and keep me company. About half way through the night, deep in conversation, I realized that I was no longer talking to a flighty, teenage chatterbox; she is now an adult. One who can talk about her future career and making a wise purchase buying a new car. I remember Drew when she was a bouncy, carefree freshman. I am so proud of the young woman she has become. I am so proud to say grew up hanging out in my room.

     It’s moments like that remind me why I became a teacher. Thanks Drew; you can sleep on my couch anytime.