I appreciate this prompt today. I actually had a thought last night and this prompt is the perfect opportunity for what I was thinking about writing. We are halfway through June and on the 30th, it will be exactly one year since my last official day as an employee at my old job. I thought about what I would write on that day. Certainly it’s a day of celebration. Of reminding myself of how much my life has changed since that day. To remember the courage it took for me to decide to leave and actually do it.
But I have spent the past year writing a great deal about how terrible it was working there. Just how much my mental health suffered because of my principal-turned-“mentor”. While all of that is true, it absolutely was a series of repetitive traumatic experiences working there, I can’t ignore the fact that I was a teacher. And I had wanted to be a teacher since I was a little kid. When I wasn’t saddled with the extreme anxiety she induced, I loved teaching. I loved interacting with my students during the day. No two days were the same. Honestly, there have been some tugs on my heart these past two weeks as I have been supervising the kids program at work. I have engaged with the kids every day and might actually have to teach a knitting class in a week if I can’t find an instructor. And I don’t hate the idea.
Over the 18 years that I was in the classroom, I had so many moments that made me proud to be a teacher. I’d like to give honor to those moments. So, just like on New Year’s Eve when there are Top 10 lists that countdown the top 10 most memorable moments of the year or whatever the theme is, I’m going to do the same. Every day, I am going to share a moment from my teaching career that stands out in my memory. It’s a countdown of sorts. Counting down to the anniversary of the day that I left it behind. Though, ‘left it behind’ makes it sound like I regret leaving. I don’t. Perhaps it’s better to say, I moved on. Being a teacher, like being a principal, just wasn’t for me anymore. But when it was, it was good. And I was a good teacher.
These moments are in no particular order. I am sharing them in the order I thought of them when brainstorming my list.
Here is moment #1: “Alice” (not her real name, for a good reason)
I posted recently about my hair and why I refuse to cut it. (Hair Today, Still Hair Tomorrow). A quick summary is that I am not going to cut my hair until one of my former students is far enough in her cosmetology program to cut actual hair (not on a mannequin). I want to show my support for her chosen path by letting her be the one to cut my hair for the first time in three years.
I didn’t explain why this young lady is so close to me. She has bonded to me over the years and she and I just have this great connection. But it wasn’t always that way. I was her English teacher when she was in middle school. I had taught her for a couple of years by the time she was in the 8th grade. She and I got along just fine. But it was just a regular teacher/student kind of connection. Nothing special.
Then one day, I was at school after the kids were dimissed. I honestly don’t remember why. I was definitely one of those teachers who burned rubber as soon as the kids were all picked up. I hated being at school longer than I had to be. Work I had to do was always better if I could do it on the couch with my feet up. But for whatever reason, I was in my classroom after school. I remember it being a Tuesday because that was the day for choir practice.
Alice came into my classroom that afternoon with one of her friends. She was in absolute hysterical tears. Like, inconsolable. Come to find out, one of the boys in her class had touched her inappropriately after class. Not only did he touch her, but he did it while being cheered on by his friends. That class had a male homeroom teacher that they didn’t necessarily like very much, so when this happened, she came to me about it rather than him.
I listened as she told me what happened. When she finished, I assured her that she did the right thing by telling me and that I was going to do everything in my power to make sure that boy never did that again. I told her to trust me, everything was going to be o.k. Her tears slowed and she hugged me. Then her friend took her back to choir practice.
My principal was not at work that day and wouldn’t be back for another day or so. I communicated with her that evening though. She gave me instructions to contact the boy’s parents the next day and tell them what happened and that he could not come back to school until they met with her. So I did.
When my principal came back, she met with the parents and not only did she expel the boy, she called the principal of the other Catholic school in town and told them what happened. She knew they would try to enroll over there. She also knew that if they did, this boy would be on the same bus and trip to Washington, D.C. as Alice at the end of the year since our schools shared the expense of the trip by going together.
While I wasn’t the one who actually expelled the boy and made sure she didn’t have to see him again on the class trip, I did keep my word. That boy never touched her again. She didn’t even have to see him again. The boys who were cheering him on also got in trouble. I promised her that everything would be o.k. and it was. I think it was that moment that our connection was made. She now trusted me in a very deep, personal way.
Now every time I see her, there is such a fierce hug that it just melts my heart. It’s been at least six years since that incident, but she and I still adore each other. In fact, I also taught one of her sisters. When her sister got into nursing school, I knit her a stuffed R.N. to put on her desk. Alice saw that and loved it, so I made her a letter of her own. All black because she is definitely a goth girl now-it’s that whole post-Catholic school ‘thing’ agagin! I did add some sparkly black fringe though because I told her every goth girl needs a little glitter.
Every “Alice” needs an advocate and it still makes me happy that I could be hers when she needed one the most.
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