Barley There

Tonight I register for my 12th semester of my college career. 12..I know, and I'm not even done til I register for my 14th semester. It has been a long road, but my dream hasn't changed for years. I remember in first grade Mrs Stucki asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I froze, and with knocking knees and a head swimming with wordless thoughts, I spluttered that I wanted to be a Post Office person like my mom. That wasn't true, but I loved my mom and wanted to be like her, so that was my default answer. Until about three years later when I fell in love. I savored the taste the word "coon dog" left in my mouth as I came to know where exactly the red fern grows. I didn't know I could be so happy until I met Harry, Ron and Hermione; little did I know the journey that would take me on. I learned to be grateful for the people in my life by reading about the hells Jane Eyre lived through. I remember sitting "my carcass" in my desk in Mrs Pugmire's class and thinking I want to read The Wind in the Willows forever. Every since then I've wanted to study English, and it wasn't till my perspective on people, race, love and hate was revolutionized during a class discussion of To Kill a Mockingbird that I knew I wanted to teach others about acceptance, love, siblings and differences between people. Years later I watched Jenny, a 9th grader straight from Africa who was learning a new language, school, family and culture, explain that Esperanza from The House on Mango Street gave her hope that she can still be African and American. For the past 13 years all I've wanted to do is teach English to a bunch of teenagers because I love the literature, and I love the kids.

Yes, it has taken me a while to get through school, and I still have a ways to go, but I'm proud of my desire to teach. Tonight, I didn't feel so proud though. During a shamefully embarrassing discussion of math where I tried to multiply 9X9 to equal 89 and then 8X8 magically equaled 36 in my mind, I explained that I may not be able to multiply but I can write a pretty poem about math. Overhearing this conversation, a bystander responded: That won't put food in your mouth. I defended my love by simply saying that you can make a living by teaching. The response: Barely.

Ouch.

Don't misunderstand, these comments were not made with malicious intent, but quite honestly it made me sad. The average salary for a teacher is 34,000$--chump change to some--which is 50,000$ less than he'll be making but does that make my career choice of lesser value? I could one day be teaching his future children! A career that seems to be barely a career is entrusted with the future children, but here it is just barely a career.

I don't have presentations about venture capitalists, and I am not sought after for internships that pay three times my future salary, but that doesn't mean I will have any less of a career. In fact, I'll teach the children of those venture capitalists about racism, love, death and God, so before you scorn my future, you better understand that I am not studying to be rich--I'm studying to do what I love and have loved since my dad first read to me the heart wrenching story of a boy and his two dogs.

Sincerly,
your child's future teacher