by Mrs. Egger
Just like the other crazy people who have bought into this profession, I often wonder what the heckalulah I'm doing here at school.
Options:
1. Making a living via the only job I'm trained to do
2. Inspiring young minds to grow, try, bend, create
3. Gathering secrets regarding the weaknesses of America's youth to feed to enemy nations, so I can pay for a cruise next summer
4. Reliving the glory days
5. Genuinely trying to make a difference
6. I'll get fired if I don't come
To be honest, most of these options have been true on one day or another (sans #3, I swear). That's probably true of most people in most jobs. We have plenty of reasons why we show up to work (or don't show up), put out our darndest efforts (or don't), and go home exhausted at the end of the day, ready to relax and eat bonbons and watch the Cowboys spank our lovely Yankee neighbors (shoutout).
I love my job. Really really. The kids whose names I still don't know probably wouldn't believe me, but they will eventually. I want to believe that I am one of the few people in their lives who will give them a chance, show them grace, ask them to be something greater tomorrow than they are today. Because I want to be a hero! Right? That's why we teach! That's what I wrote my papers over in college--how the drop out rate would hit zero within the first year of my teaching career, how suicide rates would plummet, how veteran teachers would be revived through my inspirational teaching style.
And then I came to work.
And some days it
sucks to be here (note: here = my career as a teacher, not the specific building in which I'm sitting. Keep reading before you get offended.). It's
hard. One loving look from me does NOT solve anyone's problems. In fact, it infuriates some kids. Sometimes (almost every time) I say the
wrong thing. I jump all over kids who have forgotten their assignment, only to find out that last night, their parents told them they were getting a divorce. I then cut the next kid slack, because his brother went to the hospital last night. Then I find out he was lying.
Bonus: I have to teach. Seriously, they make you do that here (again, here = my career, not this building. Though both are true in this case). I have to make fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year olds use commas properly, write with passion, be concise, read something difficult, AND make it all matter. Oh, and their parents are getting divorced. And the water got shut off last night. And they may get deported--or worse, their mother needs surgery but won't go to the doctor, as she's a fearful, undocumented alien. And they failed their driver's license test and don't want anyone to find out. And their girlfriend broke up with them (please don't forget how that feels, adults. They don't know that the sun will come up tomorrow.). And commas will help them get a job later in life--they really will!--but that does not feel important in the least today.
And then there are some super, well-rounded, brilliant kids who frankly don't need me. That's not what I bargained for either.
All this to say...I don't know why I teach. Neither do I know why I love it. But I know it's the right thing. Maybe I'll figure it out tomorrow. It's going to be a good day.
xoxo
Bec
