Ink Tea Stone Leaf

When I first wanted to be a teacher, I had a few specific motivations. Those motivations saw me through several years of hard work, of which I remain proud and which I mostly do not regret.

(If this is already feeling like a Dear John letter, it probably can’t be helped.)

I had many teachers when I was growing up, most of whom I admired and respected for their intelligence and compassion. I knew they worked long hours and weren’t paid as much as they deserved, but in my eyes that made them seem all the more noble. I wanted to be admired and respected like that.

I loved history. I especially loved reading about it, and talking about it with others. As somebody who had struggled in many classes, I believed I had a role to play in helping students not only succeed in history class, but to understand what was essential and wonderful about studying it. I thought I’d enjoy making my living by telling people about the world.

I was fascinated by the idea of classroom design, the way that a physical space could be made to facilitate learning. I felt an urge to build such a space for myself, one that other people would feel comfortable in too.

In the years that I spent learning how to teach, searching for work in the field, and finally practicing the craft I was licensed for, I learned a lot about myself. A lot of things changed for me in those same years. Unfortunately, what I learned was that for the most part, I wasn’t happy. In the end, I became unhappy enough that the reasons I entered the field no longer felt compelling.

I still admire and respect teachers. It has become obvious to me, however, that most people do not respect teachers in a fundamental way. Whether they want to pass laws to dictate our curriculum and coerce us into disseminating religious propaganda, or casually denigrate the value of the service we perform and the professionalism with which we perform it, most people view teachers as disposable and suspicious at best. As touching as it is when somebody does express genuine gratitude for the work we do, it has become harder and harder to accept that gratitude with grace.

I also still love history, as much as I love learning in every subject. However, I have been thoroughly disabused of the notion that anything I have to say will convince a classroom of children that any of it matters. In fact, I no longer believe that I have the skills or temperament to manage the act of teaching, day in and day out, in classes that do not wish to be taught. As for the other things that go with being a teacher – the planning, the communication with parents, the grading of endless streams of low-quality work – I have thoroughly lost the desire to do these things.

In my time as a teacher I’ve had a few classrooms of my own. I entered each one excited to shape it into a space for learning, and in each case I found my efforts largely wasted. I stocked them with books that nobody read. I decorated them with art and reference materials that nobody ever acknowledged. I provided tools and resources that were broken, stolen, and wasted. Toward the end of my last assignment as a teacher, I removed everything I owned from the classroom for fear that it would all be torn, shattered, or defaced.

When I was a new teacher, I would often tell people not to follow in my footsteps unless they really liked kids. I do like kids, as a matter of fact. But it can be hard to maintain your affection for them as a group when so many of them are unrepentant bullies, or bring fascist paraphernalia into the classroom, or swear and shout bigoted slurs with impunity, or sexually harass one another (or their teachers, for that matter). There is, in the end, a limit to what I am willing to tolerate.

I am not opposed to continuing to work in education; I plan to substitute and tutor at least through the coming school year. The position of a full time teacher who is directly responsible for managing six classes of thirty for the better part of a year simply holds no more appeal for me. Some one with a thicker skin can take my place.

Naturally, if I am not going to continue to pursue this profession, it is necessary for me to find something else to do. It was this necessity that kept me looking for new teaching jobs for as long as I did. However, I recently decided there was something that I really did want to do, and that I could pursue it on my own for as long as I had the means.

For the past twelve days, I have been writing the first draft of a novel. I’ve woken up at seven o’clock each day, made myself a pot of tea, and written 12,781 words and counting. I am going to continue to do this until it is finished and fit to be published. Then, I’m going to write another one, and another.

This novel is based on an idea that I first had almost twenty years ago, that I have flirted with, daydreamed about, and begun writing in fits and starts several times. Every time I have put it aside, because I didn’t feel talented enough, or because I was too busy with “real” work, or because it just seemed too hard. As of right now, I am no longer concerned with any of these things. If it is a privilege that I can indulge myself in this effort, then so be it.

I remain grateful to every one who ever encouraged and aided me as an educator. I wish only the best for those who still feel inspired to teach, and I will support them in every way I can. In the end, this is just a lot more fun.