N.B. This essay is dedicated to Renée Hoskin-Schiber.*
Fearless Readers, after
a long and painful slog, another academic year draws to a close for Chicago
Public Schools and for your intrepid urban educator. Of course, the rest of the country has been out of school
for going on two or more weeks by now, but ole Mayor Grinch** wants
us, students and teachers alike, to carry on beavering away at making quality
education a reality for the youth of the Second City. And so we remain, awaiting the end of a particularly
soul-sucking 2012-13 academic year at my school.
But,
what I really want to talk about now is what keeps us teachers going
nowadays. The public school
system in this country has been under attack, in the dubious name of ‘reform’,
for quite some time. In Chicago it’s
more like being under siege. And,
of course, it’s the teachers – the infantry grunts – who bear the brunt. Meanwhile,
about all the politicos and pundits and just plain pests can agree on is that
it’s all the teachers’ fault. It’s
those reform-resistant, union toadies who are failing our students. (It’s
gotten so ubiquitous, this teacher-bashing, that it deserves a name: Historian that I am, I propose theTeacher Scare. Sort of like the Red
Scares of the 19-teens and 1950s.
As in, “Are you now, or have you ever been, a Public School Teacher?” But I digress.) Point is, why do we stick to the job in
the face of all the ill use at the hands of everyone from the President on down
to my own principal?
Talking
to colleagues throughout the years as well as myself (yes, I do talk to myself
– something wrong with that?), I have a pretty good idea of why teachers
teach. In Chicago, thankfully,
public school teachers earn a decent, if not extravagant living wage, unlike
lots of places in this county, not to mention pretty much the entire Southern
Hemisphere. But nobody
in their right mind goes into teaching for the money – it’s simply not enough
to compensate for the turd balls thrown at us every day, mostly from our own admin. No, we teachers teach because we love
to teach. Yes, we do get a few really
cool side benefits with the job, chief among which is summer break, that one
glorious perk almost all teachers enjoy.
But mainly we are among those who follow a calling, rather than a
career. And the Calling has its
own perks. For instance, we on
occasion get to enjoy that particular shot of pure joy that most teachers
experience when a student’s eyes suddenly light up with enlightenment
and understanding. Those and other
similar moments with our students are like fuel for teachers; they keep us
going for days afterwards. But the
real reason we follow the Calling, and our primary source of fulfillment, boils
down to one thing. The Future.
Right,
cliché of all clichés. Our
children, our future, blah blah blah.
So let’s make it more real and less Hallmark. OUR children.
By which I mean MY children.
By which I mean the students who I spend my days with in the classroom
every week. Most days I could give
a rat’s ass if AMERICA is falling behind the Chinese in Math, or that Finnish
kids can ace a basic US Geography quiz that most adults here wouldn’t even
pass. My focus? Will Jorge get his 4th grade
reading level up enough in his four years at my high school to be able to
survive when he leaves? Will
bright, young Amanda manage to avoid getting knocked up by some boy (emphasis
on ‘boy’) before she escapes the hood and gets safely away to college? It’s
hard to get too exercised about the potential impact our latest educational
crisis might have on future US global competitiveness when so much is stacked
against my students. How relevant
is keeping ahead of Japan when dodging rival street gangs on the way to school is
their daily reality?
So
we teachers, urban or rural or suburban, are the world’s champions at delayed
gratification. Particularly in a
public climate that lately has been so poisonous against us, we have to wait
quite a while in order to reap the rewards of our calling. Anyway, back to
reaping rewards. Once in a while,
randomly at the grocery store, or at report card pick-up or some other school
function, a former student will seek you out and, in the course of catching up
and such, let drop that you, their 10th grade US History (or Art, or
Math) teacher, somehow, in some small way, ever so slightly changed their lives
for the better. It rarely has to
do with actual academics. It’s
more like, “Mr. Peabody, I was such a shit in your classroom as a sophomore,
but that didn’t stop you from treating me fairly. I learned something from that.” Or, “Ms. Ashley, I can’t hardly remember a damned thing
about Calculus, but the way you always tried to explain things in interesting
ways that we could all understand taught me something.”
These
seemingly small moments are our life support system as teachers. I walk away
feeling a warm glow that lingers for weeks. One such encounter gives me the energy and motivation to
soldier on, knowing that the work I do has – or will have – a lasting and
meaningful impact on the lives of at least some of my charges.
Last
weekend, I was fortunate enough to meet with over a dozen former students and
find out how they are doing. I
held a small reunion party at my house for students who had been on my debate
team back when I was coach. One
of my debaters, just about to graduate college, had texted me out of the blue a
few months ago, which led to a meal with three of my former charges, all of
whom wanted to let me know how they were doing and how important they saw my
own influence in their success (which was good for a couple of months renewed
inspiration!). This, in turn, led
to a larger gathering at my place on a lovely Sunday afternoon, complete with
burgers, dogs, brats, and fixins.
And 16 young folk with whom I had spent countless invigorating hours
over my years as a coach. These
bright young people had spent time with me in twice-weekly afterschool
practices, at pre-tournament Saturday practices, at winter and spring break practices at my house, during Saturday debate
workshops, and, of course, competing in a half dozen or more marathon weekend debate
tournaments per year. Of
necessity, we all became quite a close-knit band, all watching each others
backs, and sharing in triumphs and trials alike. The fact that they were eager to spend another few hours
together and with their old coach, years after graduation, was deeply
gratifying for me, but not surprising.
These were, after-all, MY kids.
 |
I always maintained that the
job of debate coach, although arduous and mostly unpaid, allowed me the
privilege of hanging out with the funnest kids in the school. This past Sunday proved the truth of
that even after they have long since graduated.
|
Even
more gratifying was to learn through the course of the afternoon that all of
my kids are doing well. Most are either still at university or have graduated
and started on a career. One of my
girls just had a brand new graduate assistantship position created just for her
– involving the teaching of public speaking. Another graduated a year ago and has embarked on a career in
advertising. A third has just
graduated from an elite West Coast private college where she spent considerable
time studying abroad in Asia as part of her degree program. Yet another has girl more year left at
UIC, where she has been involved in a myriad of organizations and causes. Others, who have not followed the
collegiate path (yet – I still hold out hope!) are pursuing training as chefs,
are retail sales managers, are working as trainers for restaurant personnel. One of my team captains stumbled
accidentally into a career as a personal banker when a bank manager noticed her
and was impressed by her intelligence and comportment. She’ll soon be making more than I do! College or not, all of my young folk
are embarked on building what promise to be fruitful lives.
As
my crew was wrapping up the party – some three happy hours after I had
anticipated it winding down – I told them how proud they had made me, all grown
up and productive and responsible young men and women. When I was debate coach, I was famous
for my impromptu, often teary end-of-season inspirational speeches delivered on
that last, late-night bus ride home from the City Championship tournament. This was no exception; indeed, I would
have disappointed if I hadn’t delivered my requisite pep talk. On this occasion, however, they
interrupted my speech, because they had their own message for me. They told me that, like it or not, I
was in large part responsible for their various successes.
For
once I did not mind being interrupted by my students.
So,
in a nation rampant self-entitlement and instant gratification, we teachers
bide our time, patiently, for the seeds we sow to sprout, take root, and
flourish. Our reward, when it
comes, tastes all the sweeter for the wait.
___________________
* Renée is a 25-year veteran teacher from downstate Illinois. In her 13 years of service at Collinsville High School, a school she describes as 'working class' and 'hardscrabble,' her AP English students scored 20% above the national average. She also wrote a grant to add technology -- such as a Smart Board -- to her classroom. She is that sort of teacher. Renée ran into trouble with her administration when she failed to get the message to change the grade for the Assistant Superintendant's daughter; the following year it was the child of a School Board member. Finally at the end of this year she was forced into retirement to as punishment for her professionalism and integrity.
** I have decided that Mayor 'He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named' is rather unwieldily, and the acronym HWSNBN is simply impenetrable. Plus, well, just look at the original Dr Seuss cartoon and compare that to a picture of the mayor of Chicago.
