71

From Kindergarten on, I knew precisely what I wanted to be when I grew up:

A teacher.

My career preparation started early. As a young girl, I used to study the teachers more than the content, paying closer attention to how they taught than what they taught. I took note of what worked and what didn’t. I paid attention to ways they made kids feel special and ways they made kids feel horrible. Ways they encouraged kids to do homework, and methods that made it easy to cheat.  I even kept a little notebook titled “What to Do and What Not to Do When I’m a Teacher.” I was always, always watching. 

But as I sit here reflecting on all those teachers throughout the years, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you specific lessons or books we read. And that’s the funny part, right?  Because although school’s primary purpose is rooted in the BIG things like reading, writing, and arithmetic, those aren’t the things we remember with clarity all these years later. No, we remember the way we felt.

I remember how Miss Distelrath gave us popcorn every Friday. Not the microwave kind, but the real, buttery, air-popped popcorn in a greasy brown paper bag.  One time, I asked her if she made it at school during lunch. “No,” she replied. “I make it at home on Thursday nights.”  This was a revelation to me! Teachers go home? They have houses? And husbands? And kids? We aren’t the center of their universe?

 Miss Distelrath cared enough about us to make us popcorn at home. At night. In her real life.  And because of that, we felt loved. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel loved like that.

I remember the beanbags in Mrs. Dietz’s room during story time. We would rush to the reading carpet to claim our spot as she read aloud. She read to us for pleasure, creating voices and characters, making the story come alive, and we relaxed on those beanbags, taking it all in.  We were comfortable. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel comfortable like that.

I remember Mrs. Keogh’s standing ovations. There were 25 kids in our class, and every day, for 25 straight days, a student received a standing ovation. A screaming, clapping, shouting celebration of his or her existence.  Each day, in those 60 seconds, something magical happened. Popularity and loneliness were erased as the jocks and cheerleaders whooped and hollered for the bookworms and vice versa. No one’s ovation was louder than anyone else’s. The bully was celebrated. The nerds were celebrated. And we all felt so special. I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel special like that.

But I also remember teachers who were cold. Teachers who were worn out or disillusioned with the career path they’d chosen. They would lecture the entire class for the fault of one, or show no interest in our lives. They would teach, assign homework, assess, and move on. Lather, rinse, and repeat - showing little interest in connecting with us as people. They made us feel invisible, and I knew I never wanted to make kids feel like that.

12 years ago, when I first started teaching 7^th grade, I armed myself with all the lessons I’d learned from my years of watching, walked into that classroom and did my best. I planned lessons, taught the content, and worked really damn hard to make each kid feel important. Looking back, those lessons were certainly not the best by any standards, and I’d like to think my skills as an educator have improved significantly throughout the years. My ability to make kids feel special, however, has waned. The standing ovations have been replaced by grammar drills. The comfortable, bright classroom has been replaced with anchor charts about mood and theme. Do they still know I  love them? I’m not so sure.

Last week, I made the most difficult decision of my life. I decided to stop teaching this spring.  There are many, many reasons behind this choice, but that’s not the purpose of this post, or the blog entries that will follow. Instead, I plan to chronicle the days I have left.

I sat down at my desk and counted the school days until June 4. There are exactly 71.

I have 71 days left in a career for which I’ve spent a lifetime preparing.

71 days to remind kids that no matter how they do on a test or a quiz, they are loved.

71 days to make each and every child feel comfortable in my classroom.

71 days to make let every one of those kids know that they are divinely special.

I  have lost my way from time to time over the years, but I vow to get back there. And I have 71 days left to do that.