I love being a teacher. I especially love being an English teacher. I get to explain language to children every day. I get to introduce narrative prose, persuasive writing, and poetry to young minds. I get to guide kids on the path to proper grammar, solid spelling, and the nuances of sentence structure. I get to be present for innumerable "aha moments." There's nothing better than that.
Not all of my job is punctuation and Longfellow, though. A surprising amount of my time is taken up with the social, emotional, and familial challenges of my students. Here's a little secret: teachers are 50% educators, 50% social workers. We have to mediate peer conflicts. We have to bolster self-esteem. Sometimes we have to help our kids cope with their difficult, unfair, chaotic lives.
I have a student right now whose personal challenges mirror my own when I was her age. I see myself in her struggle. I hear her talk, watch her cry, and I see my 5th grade self in all of her pain and confusion. She makes me remember. It hurts. I have a hard time balancing my professional obligations with my personal connections. I ache. I want to wrap her up in my arms and insist to her that someday it will be okay. In doing so, I'm wrapping up my younger self and insisting the same. She is who I was. She hurts like I hurt. She's scared like I was scared. She's at risk for the same things I was: depression, self-harm, eating disorders. She'll face things I shied away from: drugs, alcohol, boys. She sits on the very same precipice I did almost two decades ago.
I can't help but project my own life onto her. I can't help but think, "No, stop! Just pause for a minute. I know how you feel. No, really. I KNOW. But hang on. Keep going. Do that homework, even though you've got a thousand things going on at home. Read that book even though the noise in your house is almost unbearable. Keep your head down. Believe in your own strength. You can rise above this. You WILL rise above this. But you mustn't give up." I don't know if I'm talking to her or to the child me.
But does it matter? Maybe the reason this child is in my life is to push those buttons. Maybe this child is in my life because we both need to heal and to breathe. Maybe she's been placed in my care because no one in the world knows her story better than I do. Yes, it brings up difficult memories. Yes, I want to run from it. But I also have the gift of time, of hindsight, of victory. I'm largely at peace now. I've learned to forgive. I've learned to understand, and to accept what can't be understood. I've cultivated a beautiful, productive, joyful life. She can too, and I know this with certainty, because I was her.
The next time you encounter a person who pushes all your buttons, I invite you to get introspective. It wouldn't have such a profound impact if it didn't hit a deep nerve. What about this person reminds you of something? How do you relate to him/her? What do you have to learn? More importantly, what do you have to teach? Because in the end, that's what our life experiences allow us to do. Teach. Show the next generation that it will be okay. That they are not alone. When our buttons are pushed, we must determine what we have to give. That's what makes our survival worthwhile.
