Reasons I Teach

As I conversed with my grandfather in the seldom-used patio overlooking his backyard, a story I had dreamed only the night before returned to my thoughts. I quickly acquired pen and paper with which to transcribe my dream, and wrote furiously as I imagined dialogue to expand upon the vague visualizations and feelings. Page after page kept turning in my notebook, and as I neared the end of my visit, I read my story aloud to my eager grandfather. He smiled with admiration and remarked on the creativity I had exhibited. I reminded him of his own mother, my great-grandmother Dorothy. Like her, I have always been drawn towards education, unaware of my familial links to the teaching profession. We are both family-oriented, compassionate, and possessing what my grandfather described as a quiet intelligence. I like to think that I understand her in a way, despite the distance between our two generations.

I love my job because it keeps me close to her.

Storytelling is the oldest form of teaching, giving children the answers to the biggest questions of creation, life, and the hereafter. Stories define us, shape us, control us, and make us. They create magic and a sense of wonder of the world. Even as children, my siblings, cousins, and I immensely enjoyed performing for one another. At holiday gatherings, there were no shortages of poems, songs, and stories. When my grandparents took my cousin and I to Germany, we sat on our bed, exhausted from a day of exploration. As we wrote in our journals, an idea struck that sent me into a frenzy. I told my cousin about the musical I was writing, a play that could be performed for our grandparents on the last day of our trip to demonstrate our appreciation. Stories teach us about life, about ourselves and about others to develop an understanding, respect and appreciation. So, during long waits between activities, we practiced in secret, and finally surprised them with dancing, music, and an amusing story. Writing and storytelling was a way to communicate when simple language wasn’t adequate. Conversations held a deeper meaning for me, as I’m sure it did for my great-grandmother Dorothy. We may be quiet, but only because we found frivolous small talk typically unnecessary. There is a reason - an importance - to words. It’s no wonder that I, too, seemed destined to become a teacher.

I love my job because it allows to me continue telling stories.

I never had much of an issue with bullying until the fifth grade. I had always been short, but nobody seemed to care until it caught the attention of a few boys. Eventually, I informed my teacher. She was not the kind of teacher you would normally suspect students of trusting. She had the kind of strict reputation that might keep many students at arm’s length. Without a beat, however, she mediated between myself and the other students involved, informed my mother, and eventually conducted a lesson about bullying’s effect on others. I felt validated and listened to, though never singled out. I even kept that lesson throughout the years in the back of my mind and presented it to colleagues. Though I have nearly always wanted to become a teacher, that was the year I knew it was the path I would take. Teachers may be the primary adult students turn to in times of need. How marvelous is it that we can make a difference?

I love my job because I make a difference in children’s lives.

The long hours of lesson planning and prep, the actual teaching and tending to students’ needs, and the communication with school staff and families may be difficult, but so worth it.

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