You want to be a teacher?

 I could tell you how I always knew I wanted to be a teacher. My dad was a teacher, and I helped him grade papers when I was probably too young to be helping. As I marked multiple-choice questions, I tut-tutted the students who obviously hadn't studied for the test. My favorite author as a child, Laura Ingalls Wilder, was a teacher, and I had great visions of being just like her. By the time I was in second grade, I had taught three friends of mine who were immigrants from Czechoslovakia and Vietnam how to speak English. I don't remember ever being without a book in my hand, even at the end of the bench when I was part of the B basketball team in 7th grade. Let's be honest; I knew I wasn't going to play, so I thought I would read. Win-win if you ask me. Being a teacher has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. 

I could tell you how hard it was when I stopped teaching in the classroom. Trevor and I moved to Lexington after we got married, and I gave up a French program at BFMS that I had fought hard to save. Not only had I saved it, but the numbers were steadily growing. I had every intention of teaching in Lexington after taking some time to get to know my new home, and then two kids in two years happened and I was happy to be at home with them. Even though I was still teaching my children, I missed being in the hallways of a bustling school. 

I could tell you how excited I was to start a new chapter in education when I became a field supervisor for student teachers for Purdue University. Not only would I be in classrooms again, but I would be teaching teachers how to teach. I did that for five years until the pandemic made e-learning necessary, and I couldn't really visit schools anymore. I recently started working for Valparaiso University as a field supervisor, and walking into a school again made me feel like I was home. Sitting in classrooms for the first time and watching "my" student teachers work with middle and high school kids made my heart soar because I knew that there were good people who were still choosing to teach. 

I could tell you that I understand that parents want to know what is happening with their children's education, and well they should want to know. However, if parents think that HB1134 is the way to go, they're simply wrong. What this bill is going to do is cause teachers to quit in droves, and then the parents will complain when they're left up a creek. I can't think of another profession that would put up with being told to publicize a work plan months in advance. Let me tell you this: I'm a trained teacher, and I'm not arrogant enough to think that I know better than someone who has written curriculum for a modern literature class or someone who has a Master's degree in US History. I know a fair amount about education, but I sure don't know everything. I trust the people who know more than I do about their areas of expertise whether it be teachers, doctors, plumbers, lawyers, or mechanics. Anyone who doesn't know about state standards and curriculum doesn't need to be choosing what should or shouldn't be taught in a classroom. 

I could tell you that I have unwavering faith in our public schools and our teachers to do what is best for our students. If that means that they have to swerve away from a lesson plan to embrace a teachable moment, so be it. I have faith in my own children to take what they read, hear, and study and decide for themselves what is right. Trevor and I have worked hard to instill morals and values in both kids, and I trust them to stay true to who they are. Why bother doing all of the work just to shield your children from a world outside of your own home? I expect my kids to go out and make their own decisions and even their own mistakes. 

I could tell you that parents who oppose history curriculum or literature curriculum often have some issues of their own to work through that have nothing to do with what is actually being taught. One person or small group working to have a book removed from the curriculum that is allegedly offensive goes against everything we claim to have fought for as a country.  I remember my sixth grade teacher taking To Kill A Mockingbird from my hands and calling my mother to see if she knew I was reading it. (Apparently he had some strong feelings about me reading it at that age.) My mom just laughed and told him that she had given the book to me herself. If I had questions, I just asked her. She, you know, like, parented me. If more parents would sit down and have conversations with their children about certain topics or books, they might be less offended by something happening in a fictional world.

I could remind you that there are so many ways to be involved in your children's education. Look through their backpacks and ask them about their assignments. Become an observer on Canvas. Talk to their teachers. Watch their grades on Skyward. Volunteer in the classroom. Donate your time or money or baking abilities to the staff on special days. Vote for people who support public education. 

I will tell you that getting rid of HB1134 and any other bills that pop up like it is of the utmost importance to public education. The problem is that if you know, you know, and if you don't know, you're not likely to listen to me anyway. To the naysayers who think they deserve to see lesson plans months in advance, I issue you an invitation or a challenge: if you think you know so much about what should be happening in our schools, go teach. If you don't have a license, hit me up and I'll talk you through different transition to teaching programs. Not willing to do that? Take a good, hard look at yourself and leave education and policy to the experts. 

To Kill a Mockingbird 2.0

A few nights ago, Trevor and I went to see To Kill a Mockingbird as part of the Summer Classics Series at the Kentucky Theater in downtown Lexington.  I have always loved the book as well as the film.  Gregory Peck as Atticus?  Holy lawyer crush, Batman!  (Coincidence that I'm married to an attorney?  I think not.)

The first time I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I was in sixth grade.  I had my paperback copy of the book with me at school, and surprisingly my teacher had a problem with me reading it.  He called my mom, one of the only times I can remember ever really getting in trouble at school, and asked if she knew what book I was reading.  Since she had given it to me, she was fully aware of my reading material.  Apparently he thought different elements of the book were too mature for me.  He might have even suggested that my mom take the book away from me.  What he didn't know was that my mom was instrumental in whetting my appetite for the classics, both film and literature.  When I was a newborn, I had my days and nights mixed up, so my mom sat up with me in the wee hours of the morning and read Gone with the Wind out loud; it's still one of my favorite books.  She introduced me to Tasha Tudor and Laura Ingalls Wilder, Alfred Hitchcock and Edith Head.  My sixth grade teacher had no idea that my mom had never taken a book away from me, and she wasn't about to start with Harper Lee.

My copy of To Kill a Mockingbird is well worn by now; I'm sure I have re-read it dozens of times.  And I know I have also seen the movie on numerous occasions, but for some reason, watching the movie this time felt like an entirely new experience.  Seeing it on the big screen was incredible, that's for sure, but it was more than that.  I think seeing the movie for the first time as a mother really changed the message for me.  When I was a kid, I was all about Scout, Jem, Dill, and their adventures.  As a young adult, I understood more about racism and its effects on society.  This time, I found myself noticing more, questioning more, and feeling sympathy for characters that I had never felt
before. (I also wonder of Atticus and Miss Maudie were friends or friends but that's neither here nor there.)

Trevor and I had a particularly interesting discussion about Arthur "Boo" Radley and Mayella Ewell.  Boo is portrayed, in my opinion, as a sympathetic character.  There are implications that he's violent and crazy, lives under his father's thumb, and is regarded as a pitiful soul by the inhabitants of the town.  I, too, pitied Boo until I saw the film again, but I don't think he deserves pity.  I think Mr. Arthur is generally a pretty content guy.  He's not social, he's painfully shy, and he doesn't really want the company of the other townsfolk.  The people he chooses to befriend are children, and even then, there is no conversation, no true relationship, other than the gifts left in the tree, until he saves the children from Bob Ewell.  In modern times, Boo Radley would be considered a stalker.  When Scout delivers him to his porch at the end of the long night, he quietly slips in the door and is never seen again.  That's exactly why I don't feel sorry for Boo; he could have easily begun to rejoin society after saving the lives of two children, but he's content to stay at home and watch life from the fringes.  His heroic act redefined his life: he didn't have to do more because he had already done enough.  It's sort of like Harper Lee herself, who, when asked why she never wrote another book, answered, "I didn't have to."

My reaction to Mayella Ewell surprised me.  I had always seen her as a sad character and viewed her with a bit of disdain.  Now I see her as a tragic character, one who had no childhood, no life, and no chance.  She's beaten by her father, forced by him to lie, made to be a mother to her siblings, and completely cut off from any kind of social life.  She's confused by Atticus's question about her friends because she doesn't know what a friend is.  Her only contact outside of her family is Tom Robinson, and we all know how that ends up.  As a mother, it kills me to see a child who doesn't get to be a child.  A child who reaches out to the only person who has ever been kind to her for a little human touch, and she's rejected.  Mayella's whole life is about rejection.  I think I feel the worst for her because she wants to make a better life for herself, but her situation will never change.  Deep down, she knows that, and that's no way to live a life.

Being a parent changes you.  It forces you to see the world in a different way and rethink priorities and long-held beliefs.  The older I get and the older my children get, I find myself searching for kindness, acceptance, and decency in the world and in myself.   And in To Kill a Mockingbird, I can find all of it in places I never looked before.  Sometimes I think we'd all benefit by giving that a try every now and again.