I Am a Teacher, Too

Dear Nana,

Did I ever tell you I became a teacher? I don't think that I did. Well, to what I hope is your delight, I followed in your footsteps.

I'm not sure what grade you taught. For some reason, 5th grade rings a bell, but I can't be sure. I, on the other hand, teach 2nd grade -- seven and eight year olds. I don't remember too much about me at that age, but, now as a teacher, I wish I did. I wonder if I lit up at the sight of my teacher's face when she opened the door to welcome me into the classroom each day, my eyes shining as if I'd just stumbled across Santa Claus or a Princess Fairy. Did I call her name excitedly and wave vigorously when I happened to see her on the road or in the school parking lot even if I'd only just left her side mere minutes before? Did I draw her pictures of rainbows and flowers on the weekends accompanied by words that could be considered nothing short of a love note?

These shows of affection are what makes teaching so amazing to me. Of course there's more important things. The overwhelming satisfaction of watching a struggling student finally "get it." The fulfillment of a good lesson. Taking a step back to admire a bulletin board adorned with student work. Listening to them successfully sound out a new and difficult word. Standing beside them as they give a class presentation and encouraging them to speak loud and proud.

And then there are the challenges. The daily internal battle to maintain patience and calm when the crayons have spilled for the seventh time and three children are crying at once. The urge to scream at them to just-stop-talking-for-one-second and the ability to stifle that urge. Feigning compassion to the tattle-tale who believes that the world is against him and still being able to nod with understanding.

But beyond the pat-myself-on-the-back moments and the gritting-my-teeth moments, it is their innocence and their unadulterated adoration for me that keeps me coming back.

Now, I do not, for a second, believe that my students love me because I'm me. No. It's much simpler than that. They love me because I am their teacher. In a time when the teaching profession is still not given the credit nor the respect that it deserves, children are quite possibly the only people who hold teachers in high esteem. Teachers are, to them, celebrities and superheroes, princes and princesses. But we do not have special powers or gifts. Instead, we have knowledge, from the simple to the complex . . . and we bestow it upon them, a little bit at a time. We teach them about planets and numbers and animals and stories and they drink it all in. Their thirst is never quenched. If it were, we'd stop teaching. And if we stopped teaching, we, too, would stop learning. And without learning life is, well, it isn't really life at all.

I'm not sure how much things have changed since you were a teacher so many years ago. I know that you must have loved it though. I know that you wouldn't do anything for so many years that you didn't love. And I bet your students adored you just as mine do me. I bet when you greeted them each morning on their way into school and you smiled at them they felt just as safe and loved and important as you made me feel when I was a little girl. And maybe, without really even knowing it, that's why I became a teacher, too.

Love, Katie