This essay was written in August of 2011. It has been distributed by the Editor in Chief of NAfME to the Florida Department of Education, Governor Rick Scott, and United States Secretary of Education, Arne Duncan.
I don’t know for whom I am writing this letter, and yet I can’t stop myself from writing it. I think my hope is that someone, somewhere, will read it. Someone will care. Someone will put a voice to these words.
All I have ever wanted was to be a teacher. Sure, I went through the normal phases that little girls go through. At different stages of my childhood, I wanted to be a veterinarian, a dolphin trainer, and a famous writer. These childhood fantasies came to an unexpected end in seventh grade, when I knew in my heart that I was born to be a teacher.
I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I enjoyed school and loved learning new things. The “teacher” part of my soul found ways to manifest itself in my daily life. I was always helping my younger sister and my peers with their school work, and was frequently called upon by my teachers to engage other students in peer tutoring. As I got older, I found myself either appointed by teachers or elected by peers into student leadership positions. I was rough around the edges – very rough – but my passion for teaching was always just under the surface, driving me to improve my skills and help others to do the same.
I won’t pretend that my journey into becoming a teacher was easy. It wasn’t. I graduated with 162 credits to get my Bachelor’s degree. (That’s more than most engineering students and pre-medical students are required to have.) The first time I taught a class, it was spent demanding (and later begging) that the students sit and be quiet so we could get through the lesson. I spent the first three weeks of my first teaching job trying to gain control of the classroom, and would erupt into tears of frustration and perceived failure the moment the last student left my classroom at the end of the day. In the beginning, I was afraid maybe my teaching degree had been a mistake.
Gradually, things started to change. The students would be a little quieter, the parents were a little nicer, and the lessons were a little smoother. Eventually, the students even started asking questions. Sometimes, they even smiled at me.
By the following semester, I’d won them over. I had their trust. I never did have the perfect classroom – what teacher does? – but the students were behaving, and they were learning. I started noticing little improvements here and there. I noticed how “I can’t” was replaced by “I’ll try.” I noticed how “I don’t know” was replaced by “Oh, I get it.” I noticed how staunch looks of defiance slowly melted into smiles.
Two years later, I had seen my program grow by leaps and bounds. Parents were willing and excited to volunteer their time. We had won several grants and donations. My students were acknowledged and complimented by many other teachers who visited my classroom. The students were actually proud of their accomplishments. Lessons were perforated with applause when a struggling student would suddenly “get it,” and laughter when we played a learning game. I remember the first time my principal visited my classroom – I was terrified, afraid I had done something wrong. He had a big smile on his face, and said he just needed to get out of his office to see the “magic” that happens in the classroom. I know now he was absolutely right – what happens between a teacher and her students is nothing short of magical.
This is how I know, from the bottom of my heart, that I was born to teach. When I got my notice of non-reappointment, it broke my heart. It devastated me. It destroyed me. It was that much worse when I discovered why I got that letter: a new law had been passed regarding teacher tenure, and the powers-that-be decided I was one of the expendable ones who didn’t deserve tenure, and passed my name on to my school’s new principal as one who needed to be let go. Parents fought for me. Students cried at the news. But the decision was final. I have yet to find another teaching job. There are so many teachers – young, enthusiastic, untenured teachers – looking for work, that there just aren’t enough classrooms for us all.
In the meantime, I find myself humbly begging for dead-end jobs: serving ice cream, selling cell phones, cleaning a veterinarian’s office, anything to make ends meet. But my heart, my soul, will not be silent: I was born to be a teacher. One day, I will be again. The same teacher who wouldn’t give up on the student who struggled, the same teacher who wouldn’t give up when funding was limited, the same teacher who wouldn’t give up on the student who was devastated by his parents’ divorce, will not give up on finding a new home. Some day, someone will look into my eyes and get a glimpse of the passion that burns so intensely in my soul, and place me into a classroom that I can again call my own.
Until then, I have my dreams. I dream of the day that I will again pass on my passion for learning. I dream of the day I will again fall head-over-heels in love with over 150 beautiful, hopeful faces. I dream of the day my classroom becomes a home, a safe haven in an unsafe world, and even for just 45 minutes a day, I can let students know they are cared for. I dream of the day that students are acknowledged for who they are instead of what they can do on a standardized test. I dream of the day that teachers are supported by society instead of condemned. I dream of the day when education is truly considered essential and not just a place to make more budget cuts. I dream of the day when school is about the kids, and not just about politics and the bottom line.
Until then, I hope someone can put a voice to this…
My one wish…
My teacher’s dream.
Amanda Molé is a former Hernando County school teacher, and wishes to dedicate the above essay to her former students, for whom she still cares about with all of her heart.
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