I’ll Be There

I just can’t shake this awkward moment from a few weeks ago.  It all started very normally; I was attending an after-school meeting at our regional office, working with a group of educators from our area to discuss a county-wide grant proposal.  Once we had gathered in the conference room, one of the original members of the team suggested we all go around the circle, introducing ourselves.  The introductions began.  Every one of the people before me introduced him/herself as a principal, instructional consultant, or literacy coach.  I introduced myself and shared that this was the start of my 27th year in the classroom, teaching English.  Their facial reactions registered shock and, surprisingly, horror.   No one actually came out and said it, but the looks on their faces communicated, “How terrible!  You’ve had to stay in the classroom ALL these years?!?!”  They attempted to mask their initial shock and disdain with polite smiles and nods, but the moment lingered for me.

When I started my teaching career in 1992, I looked at the veteran teachers in awe of their talent and with envy, looking forward to the day I’d be considered a seasoned professional.  What has happened?  Why is it more prestigious now to spend as little time in the classroom as possible.  In all the years of my childhood spent playing school, I never tired of being in the center of my bedroom, teaching my stuffed animals, propped  against my bed frame to make them appear more alert, human-like.  I read them books, corrected their “papers,” and passed out scratch-n-sniff stickers.  Never would my pretend play include a title change which would pull me away from my plush toys!  I guess a big part of me still holds tightly to this childish notion that good teachers should always be in the classroom with their students.  Being there, just showing up, is the most honorable way a teacher can make a difference to students.

I attribute this belief to the Sundays I spent with my grandparents.  My grandmother, the center of my Sunday visits, picked me up, took me to church, prepared Sunday dinner, and always shared a sundae from Sherman’s Dairy.  My grandmother didn’t miss a Sunday; her silver Oldsmobile always pulled in right on time.  My grandpa, a quiet, seemingly stern man, spent those Sundays in his chair while he watched the game and whittled away on his latest wood carving.  Some Sundays we’d take a ride to the Frank’s Nursery and Crafts so Grandpa could pick out more perennials for his garden.  Occasionally, we’d go to Holly’s for supper where I’d have a Belgian waffle, and they’d order the French dip.  It may not sound like much, but this reliability made all the difference to my life.  I knew my grandparents would show up and on them I could count.  They didn’t have big aspirations or plans separate from me.  Being a part of my childhood was their whole plan.

I carry that experience with me to my teaching and my relationships with students.  I don’t have a bigger, better plan.  I have no aspirations to climb my way out of the classroom.  I think the way I can make the biggest difference is by showing up every day and being that “Grandma and Grandpa Ollgaard” kind of dependable.   Students know when they peek into Room 507, I’ll be there.