The Beauty of Teaching

In my AP Language class, we write OPs each six weeks.  OP stands for Occasional Paper, and the point is to write a reflection on the occasion of something happening that makes you think. (And yes, I totally stole this from another teacher.)  The occasions can be small, like squishing a lightning bug, or profound, like the death of a friend.  Some are wonderful, some are sad, some are too short and some are 4-page manifestos about Harry Potter.  But the beauty of OPs is that they are all unique - just like each student.  At the end of each school year, each student takes the OP of which they are most proud and revises it, and I keep them all together in a book.  This year, I decided to write one as well, and it just so happened that an occasion presented itself not long after that decision was made.


A few days ago, I made a comment to a kid in my class, Jacob, in which I stated, "that's the beauty of being a teacher." He replied, immediately, with his usual conviction and hint of condescension, "There is nothing beautiful about teaching." Emphasis on the nothing.


I was stung, obviously. To have someone tell you, wholeheartedly, that there is nothing remotely exciting or inspiring about your chosen career is obviously tough to swallow. I was hurt. My primary reaction was to be defensive, and my secondary reaction was to do what I always do when someone says something that bothers me - obsess over it for hours, days, weeks until I've lost all faith in myself and become convinced they are right.

I realized a couple days ago why it was so hurtful to me - because it's something I think about all the time. I swore for years, adamantly, that I would never become a teacher. They are underpaid, underappreciated, and in my teenage years, they represented a life of mediocrity and misery. Of course I could do better than that job.
And yet here I am. 7 years into this career, and being told by a 16 year old kid that my job is worthless.

And he is right. It is ugly. What’s ugly about it? The kid who can't wait two minutes until the bell rings to tell another kid to shut the eff up. The parent who sends you an email on Thanksgiving Day to tell you that the book you've chosen for their kid is valuable, yet inappropriate. The parent who goes to see the athletic director to tell him you aren't doing your job well enough. It is standing in front of a class, knowing there are students that despise you, that curse you under their breath, criticize everything about you, and tell everyone how much they hate you. It is knowing that you aren't taken seriously because how could a person who coaches a sport actually know something about English as well? It's knowing that everyone in the room truly believes they are smarter than you, truly believes you live a sad life, and truly believes that they would never settle for what you do. It is being talked over and talked down to, lied to and lied about, mocked, disobeyed, cussed, hated, despised, stifled, and disappointed. Yes, Jacob, you're right. It is ugly.

But there are moments.


Like the day when the girl in your class buys you Life Skills cookies, just because. When a senior writes you a note after the last game to tell you that you meant something in her life. When you take your time to write a thoughtful letter of recommendation, and the kid comes up to you with a hug and a real, sincere thank you. When the kid whose reputation has preceded him turns out to not be so bad after all.

It's making real, true friends with your co-workers. It's your assistant coach putting their arm around you and telling you that you are doing a good job when you feel like the pressure is too much.  It's knowing you're never by yourself, that there's always someone to cover your class or your tail, to make your copies or your day.

It is leaving school at 4 pm and driving home in the sunlight, the next three months stretching out in front of you like a blank page waiting for words. It’s the chance to do it over again every year, to make right the wrongs, to do better, to be better.

It's the kid whose Facebook quote is from a book you made him read and knew he’d love. It's the smiles in the hallway, the hugs on the sidewalk, the random text from an old player; it's the real and true love you feel for the kids who come to your classroom every day, the pride you feel when they succeed, the pain you feel when they suffer. It is knowing, no matter what happens, no matter where they go, no matter what they do, that you were there. That somewhere in the foggy depths of their memories, that you live on. That you had a part in their growth. That maybe something you said will be remembered - either the moment that they knew someone cared, or the moment you made them feel like they needed to prove you wrong.


You can tell me this job isn't worth it. You can tell me it's too much red tape and too little money, too much pressure and not enough reward, too much heartache and not enough happiness. You can tell me you'd never do it, and you don't understand why I do.

But don't tell me it isn't beautiful.