In 1968 when I was a senior in high school, the guidance counselor called me into his office to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I went blank. Because I was female, he told me my options were limited: I could be a nurse, a secretary, or a teacher. I had no interest in giving shots, taking shorthand, or lecturing in front of a class. I went off to college excited to sample the offerings of a liberal arts education. I could choose a career later.

During the summers of 1969 and 1970, I was a camp counselor for junior-high kids. I liked the fun and challenge – campouts combined with managing and teaching teenagers. It really was not all that different from growing up with five brothers and sisters, or living in a college dormitory. Play, work, listen, help, serve, teach.

Teaching suddenly made sense as a job for me. I would be able to teach young people how to write, introduce them to the books I loved, and counsel them when they had problems. Besides sharing my passions of reading and writing, as a teacher I can use my creativity to figure out how to inspire students so they can share and develop these lifelong activities.

However, I do have a year of extremes. For 181 days, I teach five classes, conference with parents, attend meetings before and after school, and correct papers until 10 p.m. Then June arrives, and I go into seclusion, yearning to be alone and quiet so I can recuperate and regroup for September.

I am never bored; there are 140 new students each trimester with individual problems, fears and dreams. I listen and guide, encourage and accept. I meet my students at one place and try to move them forward to another where they can be happy and productive human beings. At graduation, I feel like a parent. I want so much for them.

But being a teacher is sometimes discouraging too. Students do not always care about a teacher’s passions. My student wait to be entertained with the speed of images on MTV. And when I assign them homework, they look incredulous and say with conviction, “I don’t do homework!”  Reading a favorite poem, I look out at 30 bored faces and die a little. But then the next day a student begins to read an original poem and the first line quiets my chatting mind.

I wish I could wave a magic wand to fix the ills of the of the educational system. I would like to see smaller class sizes, more meaningful in-service training, classroom and community help with at-risk students, and creative scheduling for teachers who would teach classes but also spend part of their days designing curriculum, mentoring other teachers, and serving as liaisons between the school and community. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all trade jobs periodically so we could see what it is really like someplace else? I bet we have a great deal in common.

Teaching is a job that requires an endless amount of energy, and often there is not much left over for partners, children, friends, and outside interests. But it is worthwhile.  It is not punching a time clock and waiting for minutes to pass. It is trying to eke out every second of the day. There is so much to teach and learn. I am privileged to be a teacher.  I would choose the same profession again.  What I do does make a difference.