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May 22, 2004 I could have been a lawyer, especially considering how much I love to argue. Could have been a doctor except for all of that messy, red stuff that invariably flows out of a human being. I could have grown up and become the President. I can mess things up with the best of them. Oh, but no. I had to become a public school teacher. I thought that being a teacher was suppose to be an honorable calling, and that my contributions to teaching a child would inevitably lead to a better future for this country and for the rest of this world. Man, was I an idiot. I was not your typical college graduate with stars in their eyes and the certain confidence that they would succeed because they had been pumped full with all of the latest methodologies for teaching America's children. No, I was a factory rat who broke his neck due to an industrial accident. Not being totally entombed in a wheelchair meant that although I could never return to factory work, I did have to be vocationally rehabilitated. Teaching seemed as good a choice as any. So, unlike my younger contemporaries who like being door mats, I had to learn the fine art of staying flat while everyone wipes their muddy boots upon your back. First, I had to realize that children never miss your face when coughing aloud, or that they vomit with uncanny accuracy. I did not realize that Johnny could not read because Johnny would not open his book. But, as I was to learn, that Johnny is not to blame for his lack of interest in math, history, science, or English. As a door mat it was my duty to catch their attention even though my competition was stiff. Between the countless hours of watching television, the inevitable game-boy playstations, and the endless hours of chatting on a telephone with another Johnny or Jane; somehow my assignments always mysteriously appeared on the following day incomplete or finished with twenty guesses. The challenge, as I soon discovered, was not in getting Johnny or Jane to read: It was in getting them to open their books in the first place. Fortunately, they leave only small footprints. The large, muddy steps came more often from parents who for some reason have come to believe that a public school is actually a day care center. If their child told them that their teacher strolled into the classroom wearing animal furs while carrying a jar of moonshine, these same educated parents not only believed them, but would automatically call the school to report to the Principal that such a teacher ought to be taken out and shot. The Principal principle works something like this: The parent is always to be heard and obey, that their precious little angels never lie, and that a teacher's innocence or guilt is totally irrelevant. Because Principals are more like a carpet than a door mat they do not like anyone to leave muddy prints on their rug. And may you have the grace of God if ever you are summoned before the super-Superintendent. The Holy Inquisition has nothing on the thick pile, shagged carpet. To be a teacher means that you are a born masochist. And yet, thousands of such unappreciated professionals endure a students' barrage of excuses, the eccentricities of the exhausted parents, and the blanket wrapping America that defines teachers as uselessly stupid. We can thank George Bernard Shaw for that. Those who can, do. Those who can't, are promoted. A whole lot of dedication goes into making a teacher as well as a set of deep pockets. What other profession tests itself with a series of expensive tests? I could tell you of at least a dozen doctors who desperately need to be tested at least once a year. What other profession puts itself at risk not by their own performance, but by that of the student? If lawyers had to be judged for the win or lose record for their clients they would either win more cases or find a better class of defendants. And finally, what other profession prides itself as a doormat? We teach a knot-head to count and read only to see them making three times our own salary because of what they learned while at school. Yes, we carry the muddy footprints of our nation while every moron in this land claims that teachers have it made. After all, we only work for nine months of a year. ------------ About the author Rick Cramer: I have written 10 novels, 3 screenplays, and 2 theatrical productions. My latest novel is called "D". It is the story of a young girl in 1892 who experiences hardship and grief while living in the Chickasaw lands of the Indian Territory. Email: rickcramer77@hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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