One of the hard and ugly facts that English teachers need to learn is that we are weird people. We are not normal. Most of America comes home from work, puts their feet up on the trusty recliner, grabs the faithful remote, and goes searching for their favorite reruns. English teachers turn the TV off, throw our favorite CD into the player, and cozy up to a pile of grammatically incorrect papers. Then, once the papers have been dispatched, we grab the nearest possible novel to begin planning on how we will agonize our beloved students with new and exciting lessons to learn.
Believe it or not, I wasn't always the perfect student. And never did I think that, while sitting or should I say dozing off in Mr. Pickens' dreaded ninth grade English class, that I too would join the realm of English teachers. It wasn't until I met Donna Depto, better known as Dr. D. Every gesture and literary insight had an economy of meaning that we could only aspire to, but never quite reach. I sat in her class and tried to dance with her, but instead often stumbled. From my current vantage point, I can see that all of us were lurching around the room, but we were all reaching above ourselves. The mark of a great teacher, I have since learned, is not how far she can bring you, but how high she makes you reach.
During my early years of high school, my writing was sketchy and at times had slight potential. It wasn't until Dr. D's class that I gained enough confidence to allow my writing to take its form. She spent many hours, giving ear as I trudged and stumbled my way through an essay. With much grumbling, muttering, and more than a few firings, my sentences stepped through their paces and, at an odd moment or two, achieved grace.
I remember other things from my high school English career, and other books. However, I have forgotten more than I can remember and am embarrassed at the gaps left behind. One of the cruel realities of teaching, I believe, is that even the best of students remember very little of the content after a few years. Instead, they do something far more powerful. They absorb our attitudes and incorporate them into their beliefs. I remember none of the algebra I learned from Petrunyak, but I still hold onto the fun he had. Mr. Soloman's biology has long since been recycled, but some of his systematic efficiency remains. Dr. D remains the voice of my editor and my director.
My decision to enter the teaching profession began that year. I had seen the good and bad behind the desk, and I vowed one way or another to ensure that I would be one of the good. My true impulse to teach came from the stumbling and faltering over my own educational experiences. Yes, I too use to swim into the wall at swim meets, and at times now I still seem to hit that wall. But the reality is that all of us hit some type of barrier, but have the courage to regain our composure, turn around, and swim again.
The impulse to teach drives you home. My home is with my students of room 128 of Purchase Line High School. Yes, I have already battled with parents, committees, principals, and administrations, but they are not the force behind my teaching. Instead, it is with the eager, creative, and inspirational minds that continue to fill my room. It is when they are willing to embarrass themselves reaching far out on the limb because they know I'll be there if they fall. Yes, there will always be the less proud and less driven students, but there will more than a few times when one student will reach that limb for the first time.
This is the impulse to teach.
Do I still believe that English teachers are weird? Perhaps. But I will continue guiding my students through their stumbles and falters of writing. I will offer a story or two for hope and inspiration. Dr. D did it for me and perhaps one of my students will some day be sitting here writing this same essay about me. If this is considered weird, then it is an honor and an impulse to teach.