My Four Callings (Part 4C): A Call to Teach

And there's a million things I haven't done.

But just you wait, just you wait...”

~ “Alexander Hamilton”, Hamilton

For me, a calling is an intense belief that God requires me to embrace a vocation in order to make the world a better place. At one time or another, I have felt one of four callings: to become a healer, a soldier, a priest, and a teacher. Some times they have appeared strong and forceful, revealing an obvious path. Other times they have been subtle, even nested in other callings. Or, they have been all together hidden, emerging after years of contemplation. As I have grown older, I have begun to realize that each one of the original four can take on many forms.

Finally, as I enter the second half of my life, it has been made clear to me, I need to combine all four into a single path.

I am alone, at my laptop, siting in the same room where the first of these three parts began. That first one started with my searching for a place to begin; this third one unfolds with my struggling to wrap it up. The fatigue from two straight days of entertaining guests, preparing meals, and cleaning the house, weighs on me; the need to complete this part of my writing journey, and maintain a habit of weekly blogging, nudges me forward. Somewhere in between, a mass of emotions, opinions, observations, and suggestions about teaching coalesce into a misshapen mess. The summer sun and heat fade away as the minutes on the clock flash onward. A fan drowns out the rest of the world. Reminders of my daily evening swim crest the edges of my consciousness, like the shadows that gently and steadily escape the corners of the room. As my fingers tap away at the keyboard, my thoughts take shape on the screen…

     

(Please forgive any inaccuracies or disjointed imagery: such is the way of recollections.)

Teaching is a humbling experience. You discover quickly what you know and do not know, and how much smarter and more clever children can be. You soon realize that coworkers can be petty and juvenile, and you figure out you can be the same. When you correct students’ misbehaviors, you uncover your own past sins. Whatever emotional baggage you so carefully stowed away over the years will spill out at some point. Teaching children is like gazing at a mirror into your soul. Many people give up from the start. A few bear it for as long as possible. A handful find it terrifying, inspiring, and liberating. 

I am one of those handful.

My thirteen years teaching were like walking through a hall of mirrors. But instead of walls covered with reflecting glass,  each parent, student, and coworker held up a mirror of various sizes, surfaces, and purposes. Some had those little toy ones, so small and cheaply made that it took too much effort to see into them. Others had larger oval ones, framed in decorative wood, that offered pleasant views. But a few offered up distorted reflections, which made you wonder whether it was the mirror itself, you, or a combination of the two, that caused the warping. Then there were the ones who stood mostly hidden behind the full-length versions, forcing  you to focus on yourself as a whole, while avoiding the other. Finally, if you were lucky, or unfortunate—depending on your emotional fortitude—you found yourself face-to-face with the kind of people that held up the small, but powerful, magnifying kind, that allowed you to see each and every tiny detail: the dimples, creases, open pores, stray follicles, blotchy rashes, and aging wrinkles. You hated them for reminding you of your frail humanity, but found yourself constantly returning to their intense scrutiny. 

At the moment, I remember three such people. One was a teenager suffering from psychotic episodes. The next one, a high schooler struggling with drugs. And the last was my mentor, who was burdened with his own set of unresolved issues. 

The first called out my unhealthy, and unwavering support for my mentor, the headmaster of the school. The boy’s revelation was a sharp shout of disgust, an attack on my character, right in front of my mentor. I walked away. It was only years later that I realized what I had walked away from: an opportunity to be a better person. The second mocked my lack of control over my high school students. That criticism was delivered in drug-induced, condescending snark masking as a wise observation. I smiled. She informed me that my students were using me and did not respect me. I turned away, defeated. It was only after that girl left the school, and while I was researching addiction, that I learned I was never equipped to help her: she was the one whom I had no control over, because she did not respect herself. The third told me two things about myself that will forever burn in my mind, one of which I can share now, because it has to do with teaching children. In the beginning of my career, he told me “to be kind to the students”. Towards the end,  five years after my first daughter was born, and right before his incapacitating stroke, he warned me “to be kind to my daughter”. In both cases, my initial reaction was denial: I am not a mean person. Then anger: how dare you insinuate that I am not kind. Followed by self-doubt: damn, I’ve hurt so many people. Finally, a realization: yes, from time to time I had been unkind to my students and children. And so had my mentor, right up until the end. 

That man, those two students, and thirteen years of teaching inspired me to accept a simple but frightening fact: I was human.

     

Why do I want to teach? Because it is a great way to analyze, embrace, and transcend my humanity.

In the end, I cannot help the rest of humanity if I cannot understand my own.

  

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