Who's Coming With Me?

     When I was in my first years of teaching, a parent came into my classroom for a parent/teacher conference and requested what seemed to me to be the impossible. The student was doing poorly in my class despite the fact that he was rather intelligent. Before I could talk about her son's academic performance in that conference, the mom looked me in the eye and said, "I need you to help me get my son off drugs." Sadly, I've been teaching too long to remember what I said to that parent, and I don't know if her son ever stopped using drugs. I do remember stammering through a response, I remember the parent crying, and I remember questioning that night if I had gotten into the right profession. I was practically a kid myself--twenty-two years old teaching seventeen year-olds. But even now with twenty-two more years of experience, I know I would struggle with that conversation even though I probably have more knowledge and expertise on how to answer it. For twenty-two years, I feel I have worked to make things that are seemingly impossible, possible.

I have been a book dealer--selling books every year to kids who have no desire to read them.

I have been a counselor--trying to dry the tears of a troubled teen because of a broken relationship or because of their latest math grade, or sadly, because of the tragic death of a classmate.

I've dealt with plagiarism, cheating, peer pressure, and bullying--sometimes all in the same class block.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a lesson plan idea or the solution to one of my student's problems. I find myself constantly thinking about my students and my classroom.

I have toed the line, hoping that a parent won't question my choice of literary text or the grade their child earned.

Because of the courses I teach, I have had deep conversations about racism and class and politics and the way we think. Not everyone even has these conversations as adults. I've had them with seventeen and eighteen year-olds.

I have learned the art of a selfie (sort of), chartered through the preference of using an emoji over words, explored TikTok, and listened to rap music because my students value those things.

I have written hundreds of letters of recommendation, trying to find the perfect words to describe my students to the colleges of their choice.

After twenty-two years, I have corrected more grammar errors than I'd like. I have graded thousands of essays; I have read enough literary analysis--both good and bad--to satisfy me for a lifetime. Yet, I'm still standing. (Elton John would be proud).

I have eaten lunch with students in my classroom because they don't want to deal with the social pressures of the cafeteria.

I give a presentation every single day, not worrying about public opinion. I performed a TikTok dance on stage at school and definitely worried about public opinion.

I've witnessed moments where I thought I'd never regain control of the room, wondering if I really did have control in the first place.

I've watched my students become teachers themselves.

I've smiled with tears in my eyes, as my students marched proudly across the stage at graduation, receiving that piece of paper that signifies thirteen years of learning and so much more.

I've seen students who hated to read find the right book; I've witnessed the weakest of writers finally find their words.

I've returned emails and texts over Remind late at night when I knew my students desperately needed an answer right at that moment.

I've opened my classroom early in the morning and stayed late into the afternoon because that one kid needed to talk or required more help.

I've been a cheerleader and a disciplinarian all in the same breath.

I've settled disputes, judged mock trials, helped with promposals, and picked out prom dresses. I've given advice on where my students should go for dinner before prom--in case you're wondering, never a chain.

I wear my emotions on my sleeve; I've cried in front of my students.

And I've laughed--Every. Single. Day.

     Anyone who is a teacher has had these experiences. They might not look the same as mine, but nevertheless, they've experienced the feelings these moments create. That's the beauty of teaching. I know there's been a lot of debate over how teachers feel about returning to school as of late. I'm not trying to advocate my opinion here (and believe me, I do have one); instead, I write this to remind others of just how powerful and beautiful this profession can be. I write this to remind people that this year is going to be hard on teachers, but let's face it; teaching is not easy. I write this to celebrate my profession because to me it is far more than a profession. It is a way of living. So no matter where I'll be teaching this school year--virtually or face to face--I'm still that teacher who is forever inspired by her students and who will work tirelessly to help them grow and learn. I'm still that teacher who loves what she does. I'm still that teacher who wants to make the impossible possible. That's what I vow to do this year--whether it be getting classes through virtual scenarios that just don't feel right or whether it be face to face with my students, hoping Covid-19 doesn't take over my classroom that really doesn't look and feel like my classroom, I know we can do this. Teachers, we can make the impossible possible.

     One of my favorite movie scenes is from the film Jerry Maguire. In the scene Jerry (Tom Cruise) is fired from his high paying job after writing a mission statement on the unethical nature of his profession as a sports agent. He holds a Ziploc bag with a goldfish in the air, yelling, "Who's coming with me? Who's coming with me?" to the entire office of onlookers.

I would imagine that moment was vulnerable for him, as this one feels for me right now. If you are a teacher, let's remember why we got into this profession in the first place. Let's remember the young child or teenager we once were. We needed our teachers to mold and change and help us grow. Likewise, our students need us. And more than ever, we need each other. This year, we can be the change. We can make the impossible possible.

Who's coming with me?