The Party's Over

(A new iteration of comments originally written in 2002)

It’s the last day of American Education Week.  Time to bring the celebration to an end and get back to work!  Put away the balloons and treats and party hats.  Tell the well-wishers from the community that we have jobs to do.  Can you believe the lines?—the employers bringing gifts because they so appreciate the skilled workers they’ve hired from among our graduates, the parents with their thank you notes and flowers because we’ve been the only ones who could reach their teenage sons and daughters to teach them the social skills and responsibilities they’ll need, the college recruiters looking for their own students and athletes and artists . . . .

Hey, I know what you’ve been doing when you should have been planning lessons and grading papers.  I’ve seen you at 6:45 AM or 9:00 PM—marching, running, dancing; tutoring, guiding, prepping; phoning, writing, worrying.  I’ve overheard you between classes and over lunch, advising the gifted artist about how her talents can provide her with a career and where to go to make the most of it.  Or the frustrated young man who needed help because he just couldn’t make it through the day without a drink or a toke and didn’t know where to turn to save himself.  And the girl with the haunted eyes who, when in your concern you touched her shoulder, flinched because of the terrible bruises left the last time her boyfriend beat her up.  You saw to it that she got help when you really should have been teaching about World War II again.  And what’s with all the time you’ve spent with just that one student—the kid in your class of 30 who goes to the Resource Room once in a while but really wants to figure it out himself if you’ll explain it one more time.  Or the one who challenges you every day to find some way to teach her more than the other kids because she already knows all of that . . . and you are sure that someday you’re going to feel so proud when you’re reading her best-selling novel or she calls to tell you about the terrific research grant she’s received or stops by to show off her beautiful new baby or suddenly she’s the teacher in the room next door.

On top of all that, I’ve peeked in your classroom doors and seen that you’ve spent ninety minutes three times a day making sure that the 25-30 or more students you have each block, every one of them, gets the best you have to offer.  You’ve arrived at school every day and stopped thinking about making a living, and seeing that your own kids have more than you did, and paying the bills that seem to be larger each month—including the school loans you accumulated eight or nine years ago—and all the other personal interruptions, so that you can focus on the students who are depending on you to get them ready for life.

If you want to know why we’ve been celebrating this week, don’t read the newspaper.  Read the daily events of your life as a teacher.  Give the noisemaker one last toot.  Then get back to work.  The week’s over.

And thanks for being my friends and colleagues.  I’ve never been more proud to be a teacher than I am to be an American teacher and share the work with you.

Stand Up

Stand up.

It’s the least I can do.

There…in the middle, raised above the others…the brass eagle with protective wings outspread atop the pole…

My flag comes down the aisle, carried by a veteran or active duty soldier or a Boy Scout.

My flag.

While the National Anthem plays and some in the crowd try to remember the words and the tune, I look at my flag and think about what it means to me.

Every school child has learned the basic symbolic meanings of the red, white, and blue and the stars and stripes. I wonder how many of them become adults who really think about what those symbols represent?

In my lifetime my flag has seen combat in Korea, Viet Nam, Grenada, Panama, Iraq, and Afghanistan and been under fire all over the world. For us in this country it is a symbol of freedom, democracy, and promise. We have sent it to those countries to help the people there have a chance to know what it is like to determine for themselves what their lives should be. It hasn’t always been appreciated or understood…or sometimes even wanted.

My flag has also been among the first flags to arrive wherever rescue or aid have been needed—the aftermath of hurricane, flood, tornado, tsunami—disaster of any kind. My flag has brought food and water and shelter, medical supplies and heavy equipment, knowledge and know-how, and willingness to help.

My flag symbolizes a tradition, young by the world’s standards, of service to the promise that life should hold. My flag is a symbol of hope…hope that all that is the best of human endeavor might have a chance.

But it is only the symbol. When I stop and look at our national emblem, I let the red, white, and blue, the stars and stripes remind me of the men and women who wear it on their uniform sleeves. I remember that above all else, the Stars and Stripes symbolize their sacrifice.

And the least I can do is to

Stand up.