The school's P.A.system blasts Alice Cooper: “School’s out for summer. . .” Two freshmen giggle into my office and ask me to sign their yearbooks. Teachers scramble to grade final exams before the end-of-year staff banquet and golf tournament. It’s the last day of school—a day that brings joy and exultation, relief and nostalgia.
In 12 years of teaching, I worked in three markedly different schools: a Christian school in Silicon Valley, an international school in Kenya, and a 2,000-student mega-school in the suburbs of Portland, Ore. In each school, I have experienced hope and despair, pettiness and dignity, struggle and serenity. Above all, I have been touched by the lives of the hundreds of students who have passed through my classroom.
Over the years, well-meaning students, parents and acquaintances have inquired about my career choice. The refrain goes something like this: “You have a master’s degree from Stanford—why are you just a teacher?” I admit that I am tempted to reply, with biting hubris, “Who else would you want teaching your children?” But usually my response is, “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.”
Of course, these years of grading research papers, fighting plagiarism and struggling with meager paychecks have led to moments of career crisis. I may one day find fulfillment in another career. But, for now, I love my job. And that’s not just summer vacation talking.
For every angry parent or rude student, there are hundreds of moments of heartwarming joy or unrestrained laughter. Here’s one from a freshman English class. Every Friday, I encourage one student to play a song for the class, then share how the lyrics or music has affected them. “Friday Music,” a beloved institution in my classroom, has fostered lots of interaction among diverse groups of students over the years.
Britnee had selected The Lion King anthem “Circle of Life.” As the first few bars resounded through the room, Nick, a student who never shies from the spotlight, jumped up and started crooning along. Soon the entire class had formed a circle and was swaying, arm in arm, singing like an old-time gospel revival. It was absurd and self-consciously goofy, but it was also a magical, almost spiritual, moment that unified a class of athletes, goths, nerds, punks and princesses.
Disney singalongs are not part of the statewide curriculum. But such moments keep kids coming to class and create a safe atmosphere where students are willing to take the risks that lead to true, meaningful learning.
No teaching career is all songs and games. My heart has broken for my students over and over. Lydia, in my very first English class, was a gifted tennis player whose overbearing father/coach crushed her spirit and left her groveling in tears. Njau, a former Nairobi street-kid who wanted to become a pilot, had pursued education as an escape from the entangling cycle of drugs, crime and poverty. But when his mother died of AIDS, the pain was too much, and he regressed into sniffing glue. Kristen, whose parents had kicked her out of the house, was a senior only one trimester away from graduating. When a roommate stole her rent money, Kristen lost her housing, missed 10 straight days of school and dropped out.
Students are often surprised when I greet them with a smile, remember their names, ask about their lives. The world they live in tells them that teenagers don’t matter—or, worse, that teenagers are a threat. Many students feel alienated, alone and deeply afraid. I try to spread another message: You matter. You, the boy who can quote every line from both Star Wars trilogies but has never spoken to a girl. You, the girl who shaves her legs in class and spends an hour each morning on hair and makeup hoping against hope that the right boy will notice. And you, the beautiful girl hiding beneath baggy black clothes, who writes like a crashing storm but speaks in a timid whisper. You matter.
Dear students: In English class, or geography, or journalism, or model United Nations, or even that misguided foray into French, I hope you learned whatever subject I was teaching. But even more, I hope you learned that you matter to me. Thank you for the privilege of being your teacher.
JOSH FLOSI, ’95, MA ’96, lives in Sherwood, Ore.
