Why I Teach

When people ask me what I do for a living, the conversations that follow are often very similar. A typical transcript might read like this:

Me: I’m a teacher.
Acquaintance: Oh, really? Elementary school?
Me: No. High school, actually.
Acquaintance: Really? You’re so petite and you look so young...don’t they take advantage of you?
Me: Um, no. I wouldn’t say so. I show them respect, I make my expectations clear, and so they tend to treat me with respect in kind. I love my kids.
Acquaintance: Well, what grades or subjects do you teach?
Me: English and Journalism. I get a little from all four grade levels.
Acquaintance: Oh, neat. I just wouldn’t have expected that. Do you teach at Asheville High?
Me: No. Yancey County, up north of Asheville.
(look of incomprehension from the acquaintance)
You know where Burnsville is?
Acquaintance: Oh, all the way up there? I went hiking up that way once. Are there lots of rednecks?
Me: That’s not exactly how I would describe them, but you could say that. Some identify with that title. Actually, though, my students are the most open-minded group I’ve ever encountered, even though I substituted last year in the city.
Acquaintance: Really? Interesting. That’s not what I would have assumed. I could never do what you do, but I really respect it. Teaching is such a noble profession...

I continue to be floored by the fact that even intelligent, educated people seem content to use the cliché. I hate the sound of it. It doesn’t make me angry anymore, but I admit that I have felt like saying snarky things to people for dropping that bomb. “Noble.” Bah!

First of all, it makes my job sound like an unpleasant labor of love, involving some kind of heroic sacrifice. This is not what teaching means to me. Teaching is exciting and interesting and endlessly creative. A variation on the above transcript might contain my oft-repeated assertion that I chose to teach partly because there is nothing less boring in the world to do all day long.

For instance, while people my age toil away for tip money and stay up late drinking and making idle conversation with other bored twentysomethings, I stay up late planning lessons that will hopefully get a room full of ninth graders excited about something, or push a group of standard seniors to do honors level work without even realizing that they are exceeding the usual expectations for their “demographic.” Part of my job is to inspire young people to realize their immense potential. What could be more fun and challenging? I’ve put in my time waiting tables and running cash registers, and I still respect that work. Nevertheless, there are few things more mind-numbing than that kind of alienated labor. Call me restless or stimulation-needy, but that life isn’t enough for me.

Furthermore, although I admit to sometimes losing sleep worrying about students, I find teaching to be particularly well-suited to a healthy, balanced, well-rounded life. Since there is always more grading to do, more paperwork to fret about, or somebody in authority who wants something from you, the ubiquity of stress and pressure make it all the more important to keep a healthy psychological distance. If a new teacher values her profession, she must find ways to cope with stress; usually, this means staying in touch with all the things she enjoyed before becoming a teacher, as well as any new interests that come along. This is the only way to prevent losing one’s proverbial marbles, and is therefore an important aspect of being an effective teacher. How could an anxious, unfulfilled, psychologically unavailable person really expect to inspire anyone?

For me, this means reserving time on most weekends to see my friends’ bands play, take walks in the woods, read books, write in my journal, or have long, ponderous conversations with loved ones. I try to make sure that by the end of the weekend, I have had the chance to fully reset myself for the week ahead. This is as essential to my success in the classroom as doing research or grading essays.

I haven’t always felt so positive about my career—I had to go through a long period of turbulent ambivalence to get to this point. When I first found out in the twelfth grade that I had won the Teaching Fellows scholarship, my stomach must have flipped over in my guts. I thought that it must have been some kind of mistake. First of all, I could hardly believe that this stuffy, impeccably dressed group of retired teachers—my interview panelists—would have favored me over all those sweet-faced, agreeable, average-looking girls who love little children and who probably talked about how teaching is such a “noble profession” in their interviews.

I had walked into my interview with a shaved head and a chip on my shoulder, talking about how the concrete prison cells we call classrooms are actually the worst possible places for people to learn anything valuable, and how American school systems are no longer equipped to respond to the demands of our changing society. I walked out of the conference room congratulating myself for doing such a good job ensuring that no one would ever compel me to teach in a public school.

I shuddered at the idea, really. I had been to Governor’s School in the summer before my eleventh grade year, where my mind was irrevocably opened to worlds of possibilities I had never considered before. I thought that I would surely become an artist, or perhaps a political activist, when I grew up. Everyone else expected something of the sort from me, too. Teaching seemed to me like something people do when they can’t do anything else, or when they have become so complacent that they can be satisfied with a confining, highly localized sphere of influence. (Was I ever in for a shock!)

Applying for the Teaching Fellows scholarship had been something that an adviser persuaded me to do as a backup plan, to which I had only grudgingly conceded, all the while feeling absolutely certain that it would not, could not happen. Yet, through round after round of applications and tests, my name kept appearing on the list of finalists.

And then I got the letter. There was no hiding the results from my parents, who had been waiting eagerly for the envelope with the blue star logo to appear in the mailbox. (They had hoped to be able to invest some of the money they would save on my expenses to open a restaurant, which they did the very next year.)

I tore open the envelope and read the first word, “Congratulations,” and immediately dissolved into tears. I had been duped! My plan to avoid teaching by telling the truth in my interview had failed! What could it mean? Could these old stiffs and bureaucrats actually want to see real change happen in public education? It ran contrary to my whole belief system. Clearly, this was the first of an ongoing series of surprises. Here I am now, a teacher in a tiny farm town just like the one I ran away from years ago, and I can honestly say that I feel excited to go back to work each Monday.