Skip to main content

We Don't Need No Education...Um, Yeah You Do

This morning I saw a video titled "If We Treated Teachers Like Football Stars," of course I watched it and laughed. "If only" were my thoughts. Later at school I was talking with a friend and he asked, "You really want to teach, don't you?" and I nodded. Yes, I really do want to teach. Never ever ever ever did I think I'd want to be a teacher. I left my last life because it didn't have any meaning. I felt as if I wasn't doing anything important. Now, although some days are rough, I do feel as if I'm making a difference.

Now, I can go on and talk about why I'm being selfless and improving students lives, but that would be a lie. Not a complete lie, but a little white one. I don't help all students. That's not because I don't want it, it's because they don't want it. They sit there the whole semester with a bored and or smelling shit face, and I can't do anything about it. Instead of griping with other faculty about it, I try to focus on the ones that do want to be there and are asking for an education. Those students make me want to be selfless. They make me want to jump through hoops to show them books and stories and ideas they've never heard of. They fill the void I had in my past life.

There are other reasons, selfish reasons, I have for wanting to teach. Teaching gives me time to write. It gives me time to read. It gives me time off so I can visit far away places. It also allows me to meet like minded people that I can nerd out with and talk about books and writing for hours. Is it bad to be selfish? I don't think so. Does it taint my want for teaching? No, because I think of teachers that influenced my life, and I'm grateful. (Thank you Mrs. Duran, Mr. Scroggins, Dr. Terrell)

Earlier this week a professor at the college passed away. I didn't know her well, but most of her adult life was spent in those buildings and hallways. I've heard a few other professors and staff speak of her, and at first I thought how weird it must be to just disappear from somewhere after being there for so long, and how sad that classes and things are going on as if she never existed. But instead of thinking of it that way, I'd like to think that perhaps this semester none of the students will know her, but there are countless semesters that students did. Perhaps, she didn't touch everyone's life, but after 40 years on campus, 80 Spring and Fall semesters, I'd like to average she made an impact on at least 1 student a semester. Now, if after I die 80 non friend and family members still remember who I am and have a story based on a book that changed their life or an essay or... then that's not a bad thing.

Pink Floyd's video shows children being churned into a machine. A metaphor for the man and how we all become a piece of that machine. That happens. It's true. I've been a part of whole different kind of man and hated myself a little. But maybe it's what we do while we're in the man that can make a difference.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
3 comments
Read more

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...
2 comments
Read more

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
Post a Comment
Read more