I dedicate this short story to the teachers who did not make it to retirement, to those that were forced into retirement, and to those that were forced to postpone their retirement.
There is no profession more noble than that of an educator. Like a candle, you will consume yourself to light the way for others.
Before your first day, you will prepare by buying khakis, cardigans—maybe slacks if your appearance is already part of the product. But never jeans.
On your first day, you will cross the threshold as you leave your home and breathe in the air of change as you begin your new routine. There will be an indoctrination where you learn the humble beginnings of the system you now belong to. They will speak of legacy. Of values. Of growth. They will not mention the dead rats at your campus. Or the mold deep within the walls and ceiling tiles.
“Welcome! You are lucky to be here,” a new colleague will tell you on your first day on campus. “Everyone wants to work here because we have the best administration—very supportive. I heard there were at least twenty applicants and only a handful of interviews. You were the one chosen by a panel of veterans.”
Naturally, you feel grateful, lucky even. You have been given great responsibility, a stable salary paid monthly, a classroom, and a “teacher’s edition” literature textbook. Now your time has come to prepare students for the labyrinth of life. You have been handed their future. You, yourself, have been preparing for this role for many years, and you have finally reached your goal. You are a certified educator.
“Here is your brand-new lanyard. Wear it with pride,” they say. You do. You beam. For now.
“You are lucky to be here.”
“It’s not what it used to be,” the wise old teacher—your former English teacher—will tell you.
“Things were different when you were my student. We were treated professionally, and we had autonomy back then. We were trusted.” He pauses. “Things have changed. Now it’s all about the data. It’s become too politicized.”
Then he will smile. “But the world still needs great teachers, and I believe you will be one of them.”
It is not a corporate lifestyle, but it parallels it.
You are not trusted with truth. You are not teaching what matters. You are teaching what is prescribed and can be measured.
Approaches grade level expectations. Meets grade level. Masters grade level. All students demonstrate growth. You align to campus needs. You are a team player. You do not ask what happens to the students who fall behind because no student is left behind. You make sure they catch up—before school, after school, or on weekends.
Between the hours of 8:00 to 4:00, you are teaching, but your contract says you have to arrive by no later than 7:45, sometimes earlier. You have breakfast duty. It also says you are not to leave before 4:15, but when you are not on breakfast duty, you are on bus duty. You leave closer to 5:00. You are granted 30 minutes to eat and use the restroom. You learn to do both quickly. You learn to ignore the pressure in your bladder because you cannot leave your classroom unattended and there is a shortage of staff to cover you. You learn to work through hunger. You learn to not complain. You sweat the small stuff. You cope by treating yourself to coffee in the morning, to whatever takeout in the evening.
Every day is exactly the same, and you grow so tired that you become conditioned to always look forward to the next break. The weekend. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Spring break. Summer break. You count down to them all, even as you know you will not enjoy any of them. When they arrive, you are consumed and do not feel anything. These breaks are only enough to get you back on your feet. Back to giving more of yourself to other people’s children than you are able to give to your own. And so the weeks pass. The months. The years. You adjust. You comply. You smile for walkthroughs. You implement changes to maximize student engagement and minimize downtime. You become a Master Teacher to the state. You become a Teacher of Excellence to your students. You become a Teacher of the Year for your campus. But become a zombie to your family.
You do it all because you believe in a greater good. You believe you are making a difference in the lives of your students. You believe that knowledge is power. You are passionate. You care. You are sensitive. You are laying your life down so that the world can change into a better place. But it does not, and when you realize that, you struggle. Now you take an antidepressant, and it is not always enough. Some nights you cannot sleep. You get up and continue lesson planning. You question your existence. You wonder if you will survive the routine, the stress, for the next two decades until you can finally retire. You try not to imagine the alternative because you remember those who did not make it to retirement.
