Dissing My Mission

Why is it that so many people are so quick to ask why anyone would want to work in a school?  And--equally baffling--they often say it like it's some weird,  backwards way of supporting us and what we do.

Do you think that, had I become a lawyer or an accountant or a dental receptionist, I would have donned belly-dancing garb with my work pals to shake my booty on some steamy summer evening?  Yeah, no. 

I'm pretty sure that at least half of the dumb, joyful stuff I've done in the past 30 years is because of my school pals.

Maybe--just maybe--those of us who have chosen education as our career path aren't as lost or as desperate or as misguided as everyone else thinks.  Most of us really like the young 'uns.  The chaos.  All that potential, wrapped up in hope, just out of reach.

And, as fun as my colleagues are (and--oh, my--are they a fun bunch), it really is the kids who draw me back to the building each Monday.  Even the annoying ones.  Maybe them especially.

Let me be clear.

Tests be damned.

We adults who show up at school every morning--in the office, in the classroom, in the halls, in the cafeteria--we know what really matters--the relationships we forge with those young folks.  The chance we have, each day, to really see them.  To count them among the counted.  To love them, even when they wonder how anyone could possibly love the messes that they are. 

. . . granted, sometimes it helps when we ourselves are messes.

So, to all of you who can't imagine what it is that would draw anyone into the schools for a living. . . I do believe you are trying to be supportive.  But your support would be more welcomed in a vote for what we do, in a nod to the value of young people, in a donated sackful of clothes you no longer need that might help a young person feel good at school this year.  Minus the beaded bra and thumb cymbals, perhaps.