Teacher Appreciation...

It takes a lot to make me cry. My students did it last night. You have to realize that I haven't taught since the '97-'98 school year. In June of '98. I put down my chalk--though at the time, I figured I'd come back after a year of R&R. I didn't. Instead, I took some network engineering classes, got a couple certifications, and ran my resume through a few job fairs. It got picked up, and I never looked back, except for remembering some of the wonderful people: teachers and students, and even some parents and administrators. And of course, the stories--funny, sad, or just memorable--that only teachers can tell. Put two teachers of any stripe in a room, and I guarantee you'll hear a few.

But, about last night.

I'm on Facebook, and I've accumulated a variety of friends there. Some former students have found me through my own posts, or through my daughters' pages, and I enjoy seeing what they are doing, seeing them with children of their own, jobs of their own, and reading about what they are thinking now that they are 'all grown up.' One of the things I missed when I left teaching was that ability to eavesdrop on the younger generation. Maybe that's why I am so taken with Facebook and its ability to keep me in touch, now.

Anyway, last night, I logged on and found that I'd been tagged in a former student's post. Turns out, this week is Teacher Appreciation Week, and my student/friend (who is now a teacher) took the time to write and post on my wall a lovely 'thank-you'. That alone was a gift beyond measure. But then, another long-ago student posted a comment. And another name--almost forgotten--appeared with a story. And another. And the amazing thing about this was that they were telling about little things that they remembered, and that I had forgotten. A comment here or there. A quick note on a paper. Stuff that I know I did, but never considered to have any impact. Yet, they remembered.

I guess that's the problem with teaching: you get up every morning and you muscle your way through the day's classes and you come home and grade papers and prepare lessons and agonize over all the ones who just don't get it (and who you think might never do so) and you wonder what else you can do, and whether you're just not good enough, or smart enough, or patient enough, or persistent enough. And you are tired. And your family needs you, too--to be all the things to them that you are to other people's children every day, all day: attentive, concerned,  involved, motivating, nagging, praising, encouraging, and all those million and one other things that are so important to raising children and young people to be the best they can be. I often told my husband that I wasn't much of a teacher, that my biggest asset was that I liked the kids that came through my door, and that that covered a multitude of my teacher-ly sins. I never really thought of myself as making much of a difference. He always pooh-poohed those statements, but I never listened. He wasn't there in the classroom to see.

So, last night, I was sitting at my laptop on the verge of tears, learning a lesson of my own from my students.

The most important things teachers convey to their students may not come out of their textbooks, or their handouts, or from that chalkboard or whiteboard or overhead, or even out of their mouths. Maybe it's more about listening, about caring, about really seeing the faces in front of you, and trying to help them along the way. It's being a surrogate mom or dad to kids who might not have one; it's being a drill sergeant, a priest, a psychologist, a doctor, a counselor, a social worker and whatever else the day calls for. I remember playing all those roles at one time or another--and never thinking it was anything special until last night.

For that I owe all my students a debt of gratitude--and my husband the opportunity to say, "I told you so."

So, to all you teachers who might read this, keep going! You are among the blessed people who build for the ages. Like the cathedral-builders of medieval times, you may not see what you have created. You might see only the endless day-to-day labor and the roughest of images before you, but you are creating wonderful edifices and your names will be carved eternally in their foundation.