She turned the page quietly and put
down the book, frustrated to realize that not even Ayla and her cave bear clan
could take her mind off of the inevitable.
Tomorrow was coming, and there was nothing she could do to slow down its
arrival. Even the week’s vacation had
not been the respite it should have been because the clock was ticking
incessantly toward tomorrow morning. She
had spent precious time with her family, read three novels, and focused
wholeheartedly on rest and relaxation.
None of that was sufficient. Her
mind drifted to her sleeping children, her husband working diligently in his
home office, the latest status updates on Facebook, and finally settled on the
lesson plans that were a necessary part of her career. The thought made her soul cringe.
Teaching used to be a joy, really. She would go home at the end of the day
thinking, “I can’t believe I actually get paid to do this job!” She went into education, like countless
others, because of the wonderful teachers she herself had been blessed with in
life. Her mother, who read countless
books to her, repeated books often enough that she’d memorize them; Mrs.
Chaisson, her first grade teacher, who lovingly changed the letters on the page
to words and sentences that told stories; Mrs. Conques, her third grade
teacher, who allowed her to assign parts and hold rehearsals for a play she had
written. (It was a very bad play, and an
equally unmentionable performance, but Mrs. Conques took her seriously, valued
her as a writer and a learner, and set her life firmly on course towards
becoming a teacher.) High school English
teachers Mrs. Maher, Mrs. Mouton, and of course, Mrs. Delcambre, poured
themselves into her, helping her to find her voice and project it loud and
clear for everyone to hear. Her first
job as a resource teacher for a group of students with learning difficulties
cemented her resolve that she was doing what God had created her to do. After
14 years, the fire was gone, and she agonized over the injustice of it
all.
She had always been an avid
reader. Summers were spent staying up
all night reading, and her father’s weekly trips to the library with her fueled
her appetite. The librarians in her
small town library knew her by name, and they had figured out very early that
the two book check out rule wasn’t going to work for this little girl. Her father had assured them that she was
actually reading them, and that she treated them like treasured friends, so
they allowed her the special privilege of taking home as many books as she
could carry. How often had she met her
father the day after the library trip, with all the books stacked near the
front door, ready for another trip downtown.
She smiled nostalgically as she
remembered her parents scolding her for reading her books at the dinner
table. “Put that book away and visit
with your family,” they were always saying.
Of course, she could see the wisdom in that mantra now, but at the time
it just annoyed her because they didn’t understand. Not many people could understand the
relationship she had with books, and more specifically, the characters in those
books. Closing Little House on the
Prairie to sit down with her family and eat was leaving Laura in the clutches
of that mean girl, Nellie. Did her
mother honestly expect her to close A Wrinkle in Time without founding
out of Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin were able to rescue her father from the
clutches of It?
She often lost herself between the
pages of her books, and as an adolescent, being lost was preferable to being
unnoticed. As a character in whatever
book she was reading she mattered, more so than she ever felt she did in
reality. Identities tried on while
reading were experiments in boldness, humor, and angst. She became so much more than the band nerd
misfit she was on the outside. The
characters in her books were her friends, and it was crucial that she be
understood and accepted.
By the time high school graduation
rolled around, she was fairly certain teaching was in her future. After all, she was a great reader, and
desperately wanted to impart that desire on her future students. Her writing was strong, her voice even
stronger, and she felt she had something important to share. Her English
teachers encouraged her, saying it was a noble profession, and that they
believed in her ability to be a good one.
She graduated from college, taught a year of resource, and then finally
landed her dream job as a high school English teacher. The butterflies in her stomach the night
before her first day of school were not just fluttering…they were turning
somersaults and karate chopping like ninjas.
Her first English job wasn’t just at
any school; it was at her
school. The fact that some of her high
school English teachers were now her colleagues made her even more anxious to
do an outstanding job. Her classes were
filled with reading, writing, and discussion, and content was taught through
thematic lessons on the Holocaust, the Civil Rights Movement, Individualism, and
JFK’s assassination, just to name a few.
Was she perfect? No, of course not, but she was effective.
A former principal once told her
that her teaching methods were the most unorthodox he’d ever seen, but they
worked, and she should continue. She
carried that description of her around with her like her very first
trophy. She’d worked hard for that
identity, and was almost arrogant about the reality that she didn’t fit into a
box. Textbooks? You must be kidding. They remained stacked in the corner of her
classroom, pining away for use. She had
purpose, drive, ambition, and moxie.
Read the story and answer discussion questions? Only when she was sick and needed work for
the sub to do with her classes….
One day she was reading a Holocaust
survivor’s autobiography, and the story moved her to tears. Physically she sat on the stool in front of
her sophomore English class, tears silently falling from her eyes, but mentally
she was in that abandoned warehouse in World War II. Mentally she was Gerda Weismann Klein, and it
broke her. Her chest hurt as she tried
in vain to hold in the sobs that threatened to break free. Suddenly she remembered that she wasn’t
alone, and she began to decipher the whispers that were making their way into
her conscience…”Y’all, look. She’s
crying,” they whispered. “For real, she
got tears running down her face.” I
heard one of my students say, “I wonder what she readin’, I ain’t ever cried
over reading nothing.”
She came back to reality and shared
what she was reading with her class. As
she passed around a signup sheet for the three or four students who were
fighting over who was going to get to read her book when she was finished, she
sighed a sigh of complete and total fulfillment and joy. “This is why I became a teacher,” she
thought.
It was hard for her to determine
exactly when her passion began to cool.
Pinpointing the cause of the decline was even more difficult. There were lots of external culprits that
were easy enough to name. Her divorce
kicked her ass. Seriously. There were days when she didn’t even brush
her hair for work, and if it hadn’t been for her son she would have remained
hidden from the world until she ended things.
Her divorce caused serious financial problems that her teacher salary
wasn’t able to fend off. Her pantry was
bare, and her checking account was as empty as her heart. She spent her time in the desert, and was a
stronger person for it.
But time heals all wounds, and that
was as true in her case as it is for anyone.
If that wasn’t the cause, then what
was?
