The Long Hard Road
How can this be? After so much time and hard work, I am right at the end, which is also a beginning. On December 15th, it will be official; I will be a college graduate! I have so much to share.
Today was my last day of student teaching. Holy crap! I did it! I know that I have finally found my calling. I was meant to be a teacher, and I can't wait to get started. I am so ready for a paycheck, but, since it has been nearly 5 years since I had one, I won't know what to do with it when I get it.
Thirteen years ago today, I was 18 years old and just finishing my first semester of college. I lived in a teeny, tiny dorm room with a crazy Christian Fundamentalist whom I had not known prior to arriving at school. I was in nursing school, and hated every minute of it. I had just met one of the best friends I would ever have who would later become my roommate. I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend, my first true love. I loved to party, which included drinking heavily, smoking ganja, and cigarettes. Oh, my parents must have been so proud. My grades this semester were awesome, though I can't for the life of me figure out how I managed to study in between partying and partying some more. I worked part-time as a waitress to earn some cash for party supplies. I didn't worry about the future and figured that everything would just work out some day. Ah, the naïveté and impertinence of youth.
Ten years ago today, I was 21 years old and working full-time as a waitress. I lived in a house with two roommates who were in college and a pit bull named Brutus. I had just officially dropped out of college for the second time (agricultural biotechnology) and was seriously involved with a boy who would later become my ill-fated fiancé. I was a vegetarian who lived on Diet Coke, green beans, and baked tortilla chips. I loved to party, and frequented quarter draft night at the local dance club. There is nothing like half flat, semi-warm Coors Light on draft for 25 cents a pop…anywhoo… I was young, broke, in love, and I had no idea what to do with my life. I was beginning to worry about the future. Things did not seem to be working out. I no longer felt like a child.
Eight years ago today, I was 23 years old and working as a restaurant manager. I lived in a two bedroom apartment with my boyfriend and my dog, Tank. I was working 50 hours a week and taking two classes at the university. I occasionally worked as a delivery driver for a sandwich shop during my "spare" time to earn some extra money to make up for my boyfriend's inability to hold down a job. I no longer loved to party, per se, but I still found time to drink a beer or smoke a little something green with good friends when I wasn't at one of my two jobs. I was terribly worried about the future, and I began to think that I would be stuck in food service for the rest of my natural life. Nothing was working out as I had dreamed it would, and there was a good chance that I was destined to be a loser. At least I had a somewhat decent job with a good salary, great friends, good friends, and a family and boyfriend who loved me. Then, the restaurant closed unexpectedly and I began to become even more afraid of the future. I felt old beyond my years.
Five years ago today, I was 26 years old and working 60-70 hours a week on a concrete floor in a dim-lit warehouse as a problem-solver for Amazon.com. I owned a two-story, two bedroom 1700 sq. ft. townhouse. I lived with my fiancé and my dog, Tank. I had given up vegetarianism years ago and returned to being an omnivore. I was heavy into planning the finishing touches of my wedding, which was set to take place July 12. I had just purchased my wedding dress, 5 bridesmaid's dresses, and finalized the menu for the reception. I had long since abandoned the party life. My idea of a good time was a hot bath, a glass of wine, and any meal that I didn't have to cook for myself. My fiancé, however, preferred to act like a child and spend money that he didn't have. Actually, he didn't even have a job. He frequently complained that I was no fun because I didn't want to go out after work and party with our mutual friends. Gee, I wonder why? Could it be that I worked 10-12 hour days six days a week and he did, oh, NOTHING!?! I was young, but felt old, and I was unhappy in every way possible. I knew that I wanted to be a teacher, but doubted that I would ever be able to return to college and make something of myself. I felt trapped.
Then, just a few weeks before the wedding, a miracle happened: he decided that he wasn't ready to get married and called off the wedding! Thank you, God! It was the best thing that ever happened to me, honestly. It was the sign I had been waiting for. I was no longer afraid of the future! It all became very clear to me. I knew what I had to do: run. Run like hell and never look back. I sold the townhouse, my furniture, quit my job, said good-bye to my friends, packed up my things and my pooch, and left town within a matter of 10 days.
I was going back to school to be a teacher. The future was bright and clear.
Today, I finished student teaching. I am 31 years old. I plan to get a job in January as a real, honest to goodness teacher. I have already had four job offers, though none of them are technically official until all my paperwork is complete. So now I have to decide where I want to teach. Do I want to be at a poor school, where the resources and technology are limited and the children are so hungry that there is a food bank in the building and sometimes they don't have coats and shoes and pencils? Or do I want a rich school where there are resources and technology out the ying yang and the children wear the latest fashion and the biggest worry is will our school add 4 or 5 more personal computers to each classroom? I have taught in both such schools, the former being my first Kindergarten placement and the latter being my second third grade placement. I loved both groups of children with my whole heart, and I could be happy at either place. The pay is the same, the children all need good teachers, and I felt at home in both schools. So, what do I do? Well……
The rich school:
…A rich school, in a rich neighborhood, where the student body is 90% white and from two-parent homes, and free and reduced lunch is not needed, where the latest technology is in every classroom, and parental involvement is uber high, and if you need anything at any price all you have to do is ask for it and it shall be thusly…
Today, the parents came to school and brought homemade cookies, brownies, sandwiches, breads and cheeses, fruit platters, punch…a serious spread that was enough to feed about 50 people. They decorated the pod (the area outside the 3rd grade classrooms) with fancy linens, centerpieces, banners, ribbons, and flowers. I was given student-made farewell cards that had been bound in leather scrapbook-type thing, literally about $1,000 worth of teacher goodies, which included software, gift certificates, pencils, pens, markers, post it notes, baskets, folders, a monogrammed teacher bag, and loads of other useful things. It was unreal! The children cried, I cried, it was difficult to part with them…but yet I remember…
The poor school:
… In a poor neighborhood, and the building is practically falling down, and the student body is a glorious mix of ethnicities and cultures, and most children come from single-parent homes, and there is little to no parental involvement because mom never graduated from high school and has to work two jobs, and the children come to school hungry and dressed in rags, and if you need pencils you better buy them yourself because if you ask for them that means a child in your class may not get dinner…
My last day at this school nearly killed me. I dreaded leaving the kids because I worried about them. I loved them so much that I cried for a week after I left. The one parent who didn't have to work brought in cookies and punch. The students presented me with cards they had made in art class on construction paper that I am sure the art teacher purchased herself. I also got notes from parents telling me how much I meant to their children and how they wished me luck and hoped I would come back and visit. The class saved up to buy me a desktop pencil holder with my name artfully written on it in bright, red paint. And the poorest boy in the class gave me a gift that touched my heart so deeply that I will never get over it…
Alexander's Perfume
I heard about him before I met him. His teacher said that he was a problem and that he was not ready for the first grade. His mother told me that he refused to learn English because he desperately wanted to return to Puerto Rico where the rest of his family and friends lived. She was very concerned about him and his attitude because she knew that he needed to learn English to succeed in this country. She herself spoke English and tried to practice with him at home, but he refused. It was the middle of the first day of the third week of school when I finally got to meet the boy who I had heard so much about.
Alexander was in the first grade classroom where all the students were sitting on the carpet listening to the teacher read a book aloud-all the students except Alexander. The little boy with the large, brown eyes and short brown hair was at his desk watching the other students with what I can only describe as indifference, perhaps even dislike. Apparently, Alexander could not sit still and refused to listen to the story like the other children, so he had been sent back to his desk until he was ready to join the other students. My teacher and I went to Alexander and introduced ourselves; she in English, and I in Spanish. He reluctantly agreed when I asked him to come with us to his new classroom.
The first week with Alexander was not what I had expected. He was extremely quiet, still, and a little too well-behaved. Whenever possible, I would explain to him in Spanish what we were doing, and he would nod his head and go to work. I was able to devote some one on one time each day to getting to know him. I discovered that he loved dogs, hamburgers, playing with blocks, and drawing pictures. Each day, the kindergarteners wrote in their journals about things that were important to them. Alexander's pictures were always the same; he drew pictures of his family in friends in Puerto Rico. He really didn't say much that first week except when the ESL
teacher came to the room to take him away for his daily language sessions. As soon as she entered the room, Alexander would look at me, shake his head no, and tell me that he did not want to go. I told him that he needed to go with her every day and that it would be fun. So, it went like that for two weeks. That is when I began to notice a change.
The quiet little boy who always sat so still and never said a word during group time surprised me. I asked a question and Alexander's hand shot up (which usually meant that he had to go to the bathroom). I called on him, and, to my surprise, he answered me correctly. Yes, he answered in Spanish, but so what? He was speaking! More and more, Alexander began to speak. It got to the point that he was speaking so much that I could no longer understand everything he was saying. I understood enough, however, to know that Alexander was really making progress. The ESL teacher stopped me in the hallway one day and asked, "What are you doing with Alexander? I can't believe how far he has come! His attitude about learning English has totally changed." I told her about my efforts, and she was impressed. I was impressed with Alexander.
Every day he made leaps and bounds. His journal entries, which had always been about Puerto Rico, now contained pictures of his new American friends, including me. I cried the first time I heard him speak English. I was caught totally off-guard when it happened. He walked into the classroom one morning and said, "Ms. B., look. I wear new shoe." My eyes immediately became full of tears and my throat closed up as I fought not to cry in front of him. After admiring his new shoes, I stepped into the hallway and used my sleeve as a tissue to dab at the tears that refused to remain unshed. From that day on, Alexander began speaking in English more and more.
My last week with Alexander was emotionally difficult for both of us. He cried a little each day because he knew I was leaving. He had made such progress since I had started working with him, and now I worried that my leaving might send him back in the other direction; the ESL teacher had similar worries. On the last day, Alexander's mom came to speak with me. First, she told me that she was amazed at how different her son had been since he had come to my class. He happily spoke English at home, and he didn't cry about Puerto Rico as often. She said that Alexander told her that he wanted to learn English so that he could talk to me more. I was flabbergasted. She then handed me a gift from Alexander. It was a bottle of perfume, and not a cheap one at that. I knew that they were a poor family and that Alexander was on the free lunch program. I humbly accepted the gift, knowing that they could probably not afford such luxuries. That bottle of perfume meant the world to me. It was then that I realized how deeply I, as a teacher, touch children's lives and how deeply they touch mine in return. I wear Alexander's perfume every day, and it reminds me that I was meant to be a teacher...
So now I ask you, what do I do? It has been a long, hard road, but I am here now at the beginning of my new life. Will I choose the rich school or the poor school or the other two schools that I know nothing about? Well, almost nothing. I know that there is a class full of children who need me. I am no longer worried about the future.
Today was my last day of student teaching. Holy crap! I did it! I know that I have finally found my calling. I was meant to be a teacher, and I can't wait to get started. I am so ready for a paycheck, but, since it has been nearly 5 years since I had one, I won't know what to do with it when I get it.
Thirteen years ago today, I was 18 years old and just finishing my first semester of college. I lived in a teeny, tiny dorm room with a crazy Christian Fundamentalist whom I had not known prior to arriving at school. I was in nursing school, and hated every minute of it. I had just met one of the best friends I would ever have who would later become my roommate. I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend, my first true love. I loved to party, which included drinking heavily, smoking ganja, and cigarettes. Oh, my parents must have been so proud. My grades this semester were awesome, though I can't for the life of me figure out how I managed to study in between partying and partying some more. I worked part-time as a waitress to earn some cash for party supplies. I didn't worry about the future and figured that everything would just work out some day. Ah, the naïveté and impertinence of youth.
Ten years ago today, I was 21 years old and working full-time as a waitress. I lived in a house with two roommates who were in college and a pit bull named Brutus. I had just officially dropped out of college for the second time (agricultural biotechnology) and was seriously involved with a boy who would later become my ill-fated fiancé. I was a vegetarian who lived on Diet Coke, green beans, and baked tortilla chips. I loved to party, and frequented quarter draft night at the local dance club. There is nothing like half flat, semi-warm Coors Light on draft for 25 cents a pop…anywhoo… I was young, broke, in love, and I had no idea what to do with my life. I was beginning to worry about the future. Things did not seem to be working out. I no longer felt like a child.
Eight years ago today, I was 23 years old and working as a restaurant manager. I lived in a two bedroom apartment with my boyfriend and my dog, Tank. I was working 50 hours a week and taking two classes at the university. I occasionally worked as a delivery driver for a sandwich shop during my "spare" time to earn some extra money to make up for my boyfriend's inability to hold down a job. I no longer loved to party, per se, but I still found time to drink a beer or smoke a little something green with good friends when I wasn't at one of my two jobs. I was terribly worried about the future, and I began to think that I would be stuck in food service for the rest of my natural life. Nothing was working out as I had dreamed it would, and there was a good chance that I was destined to be a loser. At least I had a somewhat decent job with a good salary, great friends, good friends, and a family and boyfriend who loved me. Then, the restaurant closed unexpectedly and I began to become even more afraid of the future. I felt old beyond my years.
Five years ago today, I was 26 years old and working 60-70 hours a week on a concrete floor in a dim-lit warehouse as a problem-solver for Amazon.com. I owned a two-story, two bedroom 1700 sq. ft. townhouse. I lived with my fiancé and my dog, Tank. I had given up vegetarianism years ago and returned to being an omnivore. I was heavy into planning the finishing touches of my wedding, which was set to take place July 12. I had just purchased my wedding dress, 5 bridesmaid's dresses, and finalized the menu for the reception. I had long since abandoned the party life. My idea of a good time was a hot bath, a glass of wine, and any meal that I didn't have to cook for myself. My fiancé, however, preferred to act like a child and spend money that he didn't have. Actually, he didn't even have a job. He frequently complained that I was no fun because I didn't want to go out after work and party with our mutual friends. Gee, I wonder why? Could it be that I worked 10-12 hour days six days a week and he did, oh, NOTHING!?! I was young, but felt old, and I was unhappy in every way possible. I knew that I wanted to be a teacher, but doubted that I would ever be able to return to college and make something of myself. I felt trapped.
Then, just a few weeks before the wedding, a miracle happened: he decided that he wasn't ready to get married and called off the wedding! Thank you, God! It was the best thing that ever happened to me, honestly. It was the sign I had been waiting for. I was no longer afraid of the future! It all became very clear to me. I knew what I had to do: run. Run like hell and never look back. I sold the townhouse, my furniture, quit my job, said good-bye to my friends, packed up my things and my pooch, and left town within a matter of 10 days.
I was going back to school to be a teacher. The future was bright and clear.
Today, I finished student teaching. I am 31 years old. I plan to get a job in January as a real, honest to goodness teacher. I have already had four job offers, though none of them are technically official until all my paperwork is complete. So now I have to decide where I want to teach. Do I want to be at a poor school, where the resources and technology are limited and the children are so hungry that there is a food bank in the building and sometimes they don't have coats and shoes and pencils? Or do I want a rich school where there are resources and technology out the ying yang and the children wear the latest fashion and the biggest worry is will our school add 4 or 5 more personal computers to each classroom? I have taught in both such schools, the former being my first Kindergarten placement and the latter being my second third grade placement. I loved both groups of children with my whole heart, and I could be happy at either place. The pay is the same, the children all need good teachers, and I felt at home in both schools. So, what do I do? Well……
The rich school:
…A rich school, in a rich neighborhood, where the student body is 90% white and from two-parent homes, and free and reduced lunch is not needed, where the latest technology is in every classroom, and parental involvement is uber high, and if you need anything at any price all you have to do is ask for it and it shall be thusly…
Today, the parents came to school and brought homemade cookies, brownies, sandwiches, breads and cheeses, fruit platters, punch…a serious spread that was enough to feed about 50 people. They decorated the pod (the area outside the 3rd grade classrooms) with fancy linens, centerpieces, banners, ribbons, and flowers. I was given student-made farewell cards that had been bound in leather scrapbook-type thing, literally about $1,000 worth of teacher goodies, which included software, gift certificates, pencils, pens, markers, post it notes, baskets, folders, a monogrammed teacher bag, and loads of other useful things. It was unreal! The children cried, I cried, it was difficult to part with them…but yet I remember…
The poor school:
… In a poor neighborhood, and the building is practically falling down, and the student body is a glorious mix of ethnicities and cultures, and most children come from single-parent homes, and there is little to no parental involvement because mom never graduated from high school and has to work two jobs, and the children come to school hungry and dressed in rags, and if you need pencils you better buy them yourself because if you ask for them that means a child in your class may not get dinner…
My last day at this school nearly killed me. I dreaded leaving the kids because I worried about them. I loved them so much that I cried for a week after I left. The one parent who didn't have to work brought in cookies and punch. The students presented me with cards they had made in art class on construction paper that I am sure the art teacher purchased herself. I also got notes from parents telling me how much I meant to their children and how they wished me luck and hoped I would come back and visit. The class saved up to buy me a desktop pencil holder with my name artfully written on it in bright, red paint. And the poorest boy in the class gave me a gift that touched my heart so deeply that I will never get over it…
Alexander's Perfume
I heard about him before I met him. His teacher said that he was a problem and that he was not ready for the first grade. His mother told me that he refused to learn English because he desperately wanted to return to Puerto Rico where the rest of his family and friends lived. She was very concerned about him and his attitude because she knew that he needed to learn English to succeed in this country. She herself spoke English and tried to practice with him at home, but he refused. It was the middle of the first day of the third week of school when I finally got to meet the boy who I had heard so much about.
Alexander was in the first grade classroom where all the students were sitting on the carpet listening to the teacher read a book aloud-all the students except Alexander. The little boy with the large, brown eyes and short brown hair was at his desk watching the other students with what I can only describe as indifference, perhaps even dislike. Apparently, Alexander could not sit still and refused to listen to the story like the other children, so he had been sent back to his desk until he was ready to join the other students. My teacher and I went to Alexander and introduced ourselves; she in English, and I in Spanish. He reluctantly agreed when I asked him to come with us to his new classroom.
The first week with Alexander was not what I had expected. He was extremely quiet, still, and a little too well-behaved. Whenever possible, I would explain to him in Spanish what we were doing, and he would nod his head and go to work. I was able to devote some one on one time each day to getting to know him. I discovered that he loved dogs, hamburgers, playing with blocks, and drawing pictures. Each day, the kindergarteners wrote in their journals about things that were important to them. Alexander's pictures were always the same; he drew pictures of his family in friends in Puerto Rico. He really didn't say much that first week except when the ESL
teacher came to the room to take him away for his daily language sessions. As soon as she entered the room, Alexander would look at me, shake his head no, and tell me that he did not want to go. I told him that he needed to go with her every day and that it would be fun. So, it went like that for two weeks. That is when I began to notice a change.
The quiet little boy who always sat so still and never said a word during group time surprised me. I asked a question and Alexander's hand shot up (which usually meant that he had to go to the bathroom). I called on him, and, to my surprise, he answered me correctly. Yes, he answered in Spanish, but so what? He was speaking! More and more, Alexander began to speak. It got to the point that he was speaking so much that I could no longer understand everything he was saying. I understood enough, however, to know that Alexander was really making progress. The ESL teacher stopped me in the hallway one day and asked, "What are you doing with Alexander? I can't believe how far he has come! His attitude about learning English has totally changed." I told her about my efforts, and she was impressed. I was impressed with Alexander.
Every day he made leaps and bounds. His journal entries, which had always been about Puerto Rico, now contained pictures of his new American friends, including me. I cried the first time I heard him speak English. I was caught totally off-guard when it happened. He walked into the classroom one morning and said, "Ms. B., look. I wear new shoe." My eyes immediately became full of tears and my throat closed up as I fought not to cry in front of him. After admiring his new shoes, I stepped into the hallway and used my sleeve as a tissue to dab at the tears that refused to remain unshed. From that day on, Alexander began speaking in English more and more.
My last week with Alexander was emotionally difficult for both of us. He cried a little each day because he knew I was leaving. He had made such progress since I had started working with him, and now I worried that my leaving might send him back in the other direction; the ESL teacher had similar worries. On the last day, Alexander's mom came to speak with me. First, she told me that she was amazed at how different her son had been since he had come to my class. He happily spoke English at home, and he didn't cry about Puerto Rico as often. She said that Alexander told her that he wanted to learn English so that he could talk to me more. I was flabbergasted. She then handed me a gift from Alexander. It was a bottle of perfume, and not a cheap one at that. I knew that they were a poor family and that Alexander was on the free lunch program. I humbly accepted the gift, knowing that they could probably not afford such luxuries. That bottle of perfume meant the world to me. It was then that I realized how deeply I, as a teacher, touch children's lives and how deeply they touch mine in return. I wear Alexander's perfume every day, and it reminds me that I was meant to be a teacher...
So now I ask you, what do I do? It has been a long, hard road, but I am here now at the beginning of my new life. Will I choose the rich school or the poor school or the other two schools that I know nothing about? Well, almost nothing. I know that there is a class full of children who need me. I am no longer worried about the future.