Here we are in the midst of another summer. For many teachers, summer is a time of renewal and rejuvenation. Over the last few years, it has also been a time when letters and posts have gone viral, letters and posts where teachers lay out why they are leaving the profession. These viral posts have always bothered me. I appreciate the courage that those posting have in laying public why they are unhappy with their now-former profession. I even agree with many of their points. And it bothers me to see good people leave the world of teaching. We need great people, great teachers, to continue to build and overhaul this system to best serve our young people.
And it frustrates me because I cannot see myself walking away from this world of teaching, from my colleagues, and most importantly, from my kids. I am not faulting those who have; we each have to choose our own way. But for me, what makes me want to stay and help improve this profession far outweighs the frustration I feel on any given day. I struggled with a way to explain my thoughts on this touchy topic.
Then, as I pondered what I should write several weeks ago, I saw a blog post on Twitter by @DennisDill, in which he gave his reasons for NOT leaving teaching. That in itself had a positive effect, knowing others are as frustrated and yet as positive about what we get to do each day as I am. It doesn't mean he, nor I, believe everything about teaching and about public education in America, in Kansas, or in Buhler is perfect. It's not. But it is still the greatest profession on this planet, and in the words of my Dad, I'm "where I am supposed to be."
"Why?" you might ask. Why would I still get up each morning (yes, even on mornings all summer when I get up at 5:15 am to work with our athletes in the summer program) and wholeheartedly believe, passionately believe, that there is no better profession to wade knee-deep into each day? That is a fair question. I will try to answer it as best I can.
I recently saw a Tweet in which a teacher asked for everyone's favorite or most impactful line or passage from a piece of literature. I have a long list of impactful passages that are permanently imprinted in my mind. Certain ones will press forward at different times and in different situations when they seem most fitting, as if the lines themselves realize they fit in that moment. Lately, one passage has been echoing.
Near the end of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, one of the wandering fugitives tells our protagonist, and us, the readers, this:
“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”
Then, twice in the last two days, as I have flipped through channels, once late at night and once in the middle of the afternoon, I stumbled upon the end of a little Ben Affleck film titled The Accountant. At the end of the film, a song, "To Leave Something Behind" by Sean Rowe, plays over the closing scenes. As I listened to the lyrics, the 451 quote became fresh, and I figured that it was a sign of sorts. So, here I write.
It is my duty, my passion, my hope to leave something behind that will make the world a better place. No other place allows for that to happen in such an impactful way as the classroom. In "To Leave Something Behind," Sean Rowes sings,
"I can get through the wall if you give me a door
So I can leave something behind" (31-32).
Those lines, among others, stood out for me. So often this is what we see in our kids. They have amazing dreams, they have incredible talents, they have unquenchable ambitions, and they too many times feel as if they are surrounded by walls. What do they need from us to succeed? They need doors, or at the least, windows, that will allow them to realize those dreams, to develop and use those talents, and to chase those ambitions. For each kid, that door is slightly different. For some, it is a set of French doors, displaying the future and letting the sun shine in, urging them to push them open and explore the world outside. Some stride up to saloon doors and need only to put up a hand, swing them wide, and strut on to the next adventure. For others, the door is massive, heavy, and locked. It doesn't matter how hard they slam themselves into the door, it won't budge. They need a key, and we must help them find it. Sometimes, even when that key has been placed in their sweaty and calloused palms, they still sit before the door, frustrated and heaving, because it seems so heavy and imposing. They have seen the others glide through the French doors, boldly kick open the swinging saloon doors, and they do not understand why they can't do the same. Sometimes, they fear that if they are somehow able to grunt and grind enough for the door to open just a crack, they will only get a glimpse before it slams shut on them. Or, even scarier, that they will slip past before it closes, but in doing so, will leave the only safe place they have ever known behind.
So what can we do? We give each kid what they need to not only find the door and open it, but to survive in the world they step into beyond the door. While we have them, we need to help build them up, show them how to carve their own keys, teach them the combinations that will allow the tumblers to fall. We need to fill their knapsacks and pull carts with the tools they will need after they pass through the door. And sometimes, after they cross the threshold, we have to watch them from the window, peeking through the curtains now and then, and maybe whisper, or shout, words of encouragement or advice. Sometimes, we might even need to trot down the path and help them up when they stumble. We cannot carry them all the way down the road, but we can brush them off now and then, and maybe add to the provisions they carry with them.
(Maybe I read too much into that metaphor. Maybe not. It's my blog, so I do what I want.)
So how do I help my students, present, past, and future, find those doors, fashion their keys, and throw them open? I have to get better. Every. Single. Day. There is such a wealth of knowledge, skill, creativity, and insight at my disposal, and I would be cheating my kids, slamming those doors a little tighter, if I didn't try to learn and grow as much as I can. That is what I love about summer. I get to read. I go to NerdCampKS. I learn through others about trauma, reading, writing, social justice, and so many other times that play a role in my classroom. I spend time, relaxed and unpressured, with my colleagues and friends who make me so much better, discussing ideas, hashing out issues, exploring new perspectives, and lifting one another up. I cannot say enough about the people around me, my IRL PLN, who elevate me and drive me to be better, whether I am feeling pretty good about myself or if I am feeling like a monumental failure. I spend time on Twitter, enjoying access to those there who have different experiences, insights, perspectives, and approaches. It is not always pleasant for me; some of the best in my PLN challenge me and my thinking, many times without even knowing me, and that is a good thing. At the same time, they inspire me. Perhaps most importantly, I get to reflect on what I have done well, where I failed, and where I have grown. So often, this reflection is prompted by my students, my kids. They are the experts in who they are, and so often, without knowing it, they teach me about being a better teacher and a better person.
How is that for irony? The best way for me to leave something worthwhile behind, to allow the world to become somehow better when I leave it than it was when I got here, is by listening to the very ones who I hope to leave the most lasting impact on. To leave something behind, I have to be aware of what they are leaving behind for me.
Ad that is what I will to do, right here, where I am supposed to be.
