Why I'm Going to be a Teacher

While I've been teaching Speak to my 9th grade classes, I have been assigning journal prompts for the students to write about. One of the prompts that I assigned last week was "What would you change about high school?" I got one response from a real top-notch student of mine that was a real eye-opener to me, and especially from the perspective of a person who is new to teaching altogether. Here is her response:

If I could change somethings in high school, I would change the student and teacher relationship. I think that teachers don't make much of an impact in their students' life, like they used to when we were in middle school. I also believe that for some kids, a teacher and student relationship is very important and gives some students the extra confidence to know that even when you believe that you can't do something, they [teachers] have the confidence that you can.
I believe that the big difference from middle school to high schol is that teachers don't appear to be or want to be close to the students like the middle school teachers do; they actually take the time off to get to know the students. That's the only thing I would change about high school.

This was a real eye-opener to read. My whole motivation for teaching is to connect with students on some level. As Gary Allison would say, to reach and teach each and every student, one student at a time. I want my students to know that I care and that's why I am going to be a teacher.

The Click

Lately in student-teaching, I have been working my ass off. Some people might ask why (and they have). And I can never give them a great response. I'm just a hardworker, I always manage to say. And that is true. But it's something more than that. I know the end game; I can see it. I've had a click recently, and not just the one that Tennesse Williams tends to talk about. I want to be a teacher because I truly like kids, and I like the art of teaching someone something, especially something that I am fascinated with, something I love.

Now student teaching isn't always "all that and a bag of chips." I never really knew what that saying meant or where it really came from. A quick google search of the origin of the saying "all that and a bag of chips" comes up relatively short. With only links to Urban Dictionary and this quiz, which I failed to answer, the first question being "Are older men attracted to you?".

I guess, in that case, I'm neither all that nor a bag of chips. Damn.

But anyway, teaching certainly has its drawbacks. It eats up your time like that bag of chips that I can now eat without fear of being labeled a type of cannibal. I guess for now, I'll press on and keep working hard, so that the payoff is high and I can enjoy what I'm doing, sitting in my comfortable recliner, watching my life unfold before me, with nothing on my lap but the remote control and, oh yeah, what about a bag of chips?

The Tuesday That Felt Like a Monday

I started my day with the insertion of the Bela Fleck and the Flecktones disc, Outbound, into my car stereo. The melodious jazz and bluegrass sounds of "Hoedown" filled my car as I drove down 896 and up I-95 through Churchman's Marsh into downtown Wilmington, Delaware, just as the sun was making its rise over the sleeping swamps surrounding the Delaware, Brandywine, and Christina Rivers. Howard High, where I am doing my student-teaching, is nestled along this confluence of waterfronts.

The smooth, yet sultry jazz sounds were a guide upon which I'd start my day, teaching eighteen-year-olds about Afghanistan and Afghani-Americans, something which I know little about, yet fascinates me all the same. The struggle to fit into a demanding culture has been my study lately, and I can't seem to get enough of this literature.

The schoolday dragged along like tin cans behind a wedding car, but looking back, it wasn't all that bad. What I was dreading more was my night class at the University of Delaware. I still like to be the student, yes, but I sure am getting used to my position as teacher, as well.

On my way to class, I stopped at 7-11 to pick up a cup of coffee. I have made an uncanny friendship this year with a clerk working at this particular Elkton Road 7-11 in Newark. Sayed, with his V-neck undershirt showing through his food-industry white Polo Tee, greets me as I walk in, the same jovial greeting as always, "Jon jan!" Following me to the coffee pots, Sayed jokes with me, his student of Farsi (a lesson that was taught after a few drunken encounters walking back late nights from Main Street), asking me which of those (Jon/jan) was referring to my name, and the other to the Farsi term for respect. I laughed with my friend and told him the answer.

Surprised still that he remembers my name and what I look like, after at least two months of being out of town, I answer, "The first, Sayed!"

He goes on to tell me that he will make whatever flavor of coffee I want, whenever I come in. I wonder what I have done to impress this man, and offer him my appreciation.

As I walk over to pay, I inform Sayed of my newly-found interest into Middle-Eastern literature, and that I am teaching about Afghanistan and Iran to high-school kids. It is at this moment that I know I take pride in what I do, even if it is measly, amateur student-teaching.

Sayed, with his black, flowing hair, immediately turns up his interest (and his loquacity), telling me all about his life in Iran, prior to moving to America just a few years ago.
"My basement in Iran, you see, was filled with nearly 4000 DVDs and books. House of Sand and Fog? I've heard of it, I had it. You ask me about Sleeper, I walk over to my collection and I say, 'Ah, Woody Allen, yes.' But now in America, my collection is down to only 800, you see," Sayed says in beautifully broken English, an accent that says "I am not broken, but strong and resolute," a vase that has been delicately reassembled after falling to the ground.

Sayed goes on to tell me a story of a time he was in Iran at an event for his government. There were a bunch of young men standing around, listening to whomever was speaking at the time. Sayed wanted to enjoy the speaker and feel comfortable simultaneously, so he sat down on the ground. The people around him turned towards him, encircling him. His friends jabbed him. "Sayed! What are you doing? Get up! You are disrespecting your country!" Sayed just turned to them and laughed, "I love my country! I love Iran! If I have to prove this by standing up when I want to be comfortable and sit, then, huh, why love my country at all?!"

This story struck me. In his country, which he claimed he loved, he had to prove his faithfulness to his country by standing up, being part of the crowd. In America, I'd like to think I show my allegience to my country on my own terms, within my own heart, putting these feelings into action in my everyday life. That we have the freedom to be ourselves is something we cannot take for granted here, and my conversation with Sayed today helped me realize that even more.