Thank a Teacher

I buried a friend yesterday.

Tom, someone I’ve worked with for more than twelve years, died last week of cancer. Nancy, his wife, is devastated. His kids are devastated. Her kids are devastated. So are 120+ inner city kids who had him as their biology teacher this year.

You never really understand how much impact a teacher has until you say goodbye to one too soon. When my HS English teacher–someone who became my professional mentor and friend–died a year ago, the church was packed with people. Yesterday, kids skipped school to attend Tom’s funeral. One girl in our choir cried through the whole service, cried silently while her gorgeous soprano floated up to the stained glass transoms in St. Margaret Mary’s chapel. Afterwards, I held her as she sobbed into my shoulder.

This is an education story you don’t see very often, and thank goodness. The teacher-student relationship goes far beyond boss-employee. People quit work without second glances. People rarely leave schools without leaving something of themselves, people they love, behind.

And yet if you believe the court of public opinion, teachers do only slightly more than manage bodies in a room. We don’t work “real” hours. We have oceans of free time and spend it, what? Drinking coffee? Relaxing on the beach?

People who think like this make me sick.

Teachers like Tom are on the clock when most of the corporate world is still scratching its collective butt hunting for coffee in the morning. They wolf down school cafeteria food in a half hour while the corporate world expenses bistro lunches. They donate hours in the afternoon to tutor, coach, encourage, counsel, plan, grade papers–you name it. They come home when the corporate world does, but you never hear people stumping for overtime pay for teachers. I guess because we’re altruistic at heart, public opinion has decided that we don’t mind the extra hours for no extra pay. The extra responsibility for no extra compensation. The extra requirements for certification and training at their own expense.

I’ll tell you what I mind. I mind knowing that a huge chunk of the work world has little to no respect for Tom, or me, or my colleagues because we chose a life of service over a life of profit. I mind that my profession is denigrated nearly constantly by folks who haven’t seen the inside of a classroom for decades. I mind that we get lip service about our value to society, all laws (No Child Left Behind, anyone?) and policies to the contrary. I mind that politicians balkanize their communities and economies by rewarding the haves for their bank accounts while keeping their boots on the necks of the have nots and daring them to get up, then faulting the teachers who work with the have nots for not conjuring miracles. I mind that Tom died and that he didn’t get the thanks he deserved while he was here to accept it.

Don’t wait until you read a funeral notice to recall how much a teacher has meant to you. Get off your behind and make it mean something. Volunteer. Donate. Shout down the media and the legislatures when they badmouth your local teachers. Best of all, go back to school.

Go back to school and say “thank you.”