I came from a dysfunctional family; my mother was divorced, remarried, had many mental health problems and we always struggled financially. I was alone a lot as a kid so I would find creative ways to entertain myself in my small, dingy apartment. I had a small room and a large closet that slid on wheels, basically a cheaper version of the trendy barn doors that was popular in every suburban house inspired by the show Fixer Upper. It was on these closet doors is where I had my earliest memory of wanting to be a teacher. I was 8 years old and one of my favorite things to collect were stuffed animals. They were my friends, my armor at night when I made a fort wall of all of them to protect myself from "monsters" under my bed and they listened to me when no one else would.
I had my favorites lined up each weekend to "play school." They would sit in their Motley Crue of a group: Bugs Bunny, Tasmanian Devil, Barbie, Honey Jo teddy bear and Softy Mouse just to name a few. They were the perfect class listening and ready to receive knowledge from their beloved teacher. I remember being very good at handwriting when I was in 3rd grade, so we would practice our handwriting. My favorite thing in my real classroom was writing on the chalkboard. There was something about how the chalk would hit that green board and I felt an instant sense of gratification. Of course not so much when it hit the green board with a screeching, scraped nail sound; which I was careful not to do. I always loved how the yellow chalk felt in my hands when I practiced cursive. It was one of the only things I was good at.
I put this yellow chalk to good use in the privacy of my own bedroom with my unique group of stuffed animals and Barbie Dolls. My very white closet door was a great canvas I could use to show my ready to learn students the importance of cursive handwriting. I would teach them a letter every day and then eventually words, which led to other lessons such as adding and subtracting in math. My closet door was filled with all sorts of knowledge. Unfortunately, my weekly lessons developed a layer of yellow chalk residue caked to the door that was difficult to erase with a standard chalkboard eraser. But, I didn't care! I wanted to teach on, write on, add on, subtract on until my mother finally realized her daughter was ruining this cheap closet door which would've just sat through time serving no purpose. I found purpose!
There was a day where she came into my room, which she rarely did, and saw that my closet door was now a nice, pastel shade of yellow. I was yelled at for ruining the closet and had to clean it, but there was no praise for my creativity, my imagination. This first memory was the birth of my calling to be a teacher. An educator that would change the world in small amounts hoping that my students would become world leaders or find the cure for cancer or Alzheimers disease.
Like my attentive stuffed animal students, I have days where my students will sit still and listen to what I have to say. There are days where the light bulb shines through their eyes and the smile spreads across their "little kid" grins. I think I was destined to be on this path, but there are definitely days where I feel maybe I had another calling. There are days where a student gets excited about writing stories at home because they've learned the fun of writing, those days when a student gives you a hug when you are having a bad day, those days where I see my shy child self through the eyes of a student that doesn't want to take a risk in learning. The best reward is the student who finds you when they are an adult. "You were my favorite teacher. You made learning fun."
But is that enough?
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