Those of Us Who Teach

An Ode to Tom Chiarella

Teachers never walk out of their classroom in the evening without their satchel.  Or back without it in the morning. Filled with student work. And lunch.

Teachers can quiet a classroom. Always. Or not. As they deem best.  Teachers understand things—a lovesick heart, hunger, a song by Fall Out Boy.  Or they ignore things—a furtive text, a tattle tale, a student who hasn’t showered in a week.  They pass on life lessons.  They urge students to create a life, not a living.  But still have students submit papers on Turn It In. 

Teachers can calm a parent. Always. Or not. As they deem best. 

Teachers know how to play with their students, yet never erase the line to their authority.  

Teachers imagine they have swag.  And that they never wore cords or big hair to work in the 90’s. 

Teachers put their students first.  Not high stakes tests. Not pacing guides. Not vertically aligned curriculum.  Teachers know if they can’t show students how to be moved by their own mind, then they should work at Starbucks.  Where they work summers.

Teachers always apologize when they say something they shouldn’t to students.  They know an apology earns them cred.  Not disrespect. They know that teachers are not always right.  Just human.  That is why teachers who see kids as the enemy are not really teachers.

Teachers love the classroom. After roll is taken.  After the door to the hallway is closed.  They love the hands stabbing skyward to be part of the community, the buttonhook as they work a room, the scramble and scrabble of students finishing work after the bell has rung.  They thrill at both the swell of success, and the linger of the lost who need them.  When their students discuss recurring motifs in the doorway scrum just before the bell, they feel a heart thrill of the breast.

Teachers don’t need to point out to others that they give up lunches to tutor students.

Teachers roll their eyes at yet another shelter-in-place drill.  But know if it were not a drill they would make their students stand behind them.

Teachers do not resort to a dog and pony show to impress a vice principal scribbling on a legal pad.  They have been observed enough in their career that they can keep a lesson both student-centered and orderly. 

But still call for exit slips before the vice principal leaves.

Teachers embrace grey at their temples.  But wouldn’t mind being hip and popular again.

Teachers do not cut a student off because another adult walks into the room.  But they don’t leave the adult hanging either.

Teachers control time. They understand that teachable moments drive the period—not bells.  Epiphanies take time.  Just the right amount of time.  Teachers measure and calculate time, but if some is left over for their students to chat, so be it. It will come back to them.

The very best teachers can riff. Like a jazz musician.  A lesson plan is a guide not a script. Passion.  Examples. Humor. When they all align magic happens.  When they don’t, teachers stick to the plan.

And teachers are craftsmen.  Master craftsmen.  People who say those who can’t, teach—can’t teach. And that’s just fine with those of us who do.  Teach.