I never thought I’d teach. As a young girl my aspirations ran to the exotic – archaeologist, photographer, torch singer, artist, fashion designer, spy – but never teacher. That seemed too mundane, too provincial, too much my mother, who was the daughter of a teacher and who repeatedly said I should be one, too. Of course, that was the kiss of death for the career because my mother’s hopes always served as a compass pointing which way not to go. Looking back, I can see each time I turned my back on her advice and career encouragement until I managed to come around full circle.
Throughout high school I came to terms with my lack of artistic prowess, my inability to carry a tune, and my unwillingness to take sewing lessons from my mom – all of which served to show (once again) what I shouldn’t do for a living. On the other hand, I found I had a knack for literary interpretation and a love of words. These interests steered me toward any publication outlet available – yearbook, newspaper, poetry contests – and began to shape how I defined myself. “I’m a writer,” I told my friends around the lunch table, even though they laughed heartily at the idea of my ever penning a best seller. “No, seriously,” I’d say amid more snickers. Interestingly, the only person who actually believed me was my mom.
In college I majored in English and writing believing I would knock out the great American novel before I was 25. It never happened. I continued to work on school publications, win some poetry contests, and field a few pats on the head from professors, but nothing profound, nothing truly valuable found its way from my soul to my journal. A few months before graduation, petrified by the idea of having to make a living and a life on my own, I accepted a scholarship to begin a master’s degree in business administration. This move made my dad, an entrepreneur himself, strut like a rock star. “Look,” he told my brother, “Jen’s going to make a million dollars telling people what to do.”
Of course, this didn’t happen either. After only a few weeks I knew I wasn’t cut out for the world of finance and big business. I gave up the money, quit grad school, and got a job in a jewelry store, which eventually gave way to a reporting gig at the local paper. The three and a half years I spent pounding a keyboard at The Mountain Press probably had more influence on my future career than anything or anyone else in my life. At first, I was ecstatic to have a job as a writer. Seeing my byline on the front page every morning stroked my ego and made the measly pay of $12,000 a year seem grand. But once the glamour wore off, I was forced to take stock of the realities – which included watching people suffer while I stood aloof snapping photographs and scribbling quotes.
Over the years I worked every beat at the paper, but none seemed a positive outlet. Sports stories were full of war metaphors, personal injuries, and disappointments. Court reporting overflowed with photographs of murder scenes that haunted my dreams and filled my journals with horror. Police blotters centered on domestic violence, fatal accidents, and missing hikers. Local government stories held an undercurrent of political corruption and back-room deals with power only going to those who had the correct last name in the county. Even the entertainment beat brimmed with egocentric performers giving syrupy interviews to the local yokels in an effort to sell more concert tickets and line their pockets.
Finally, I’d had enough. That day came when my editor’s voice echoed through my car on the work radio instructing me to check out an accident on a curving back road before coming in to the office. When I arrived – before most of the police officers and the ambulance crew – at the scene of a
head-on collision between a gravel truck and a motorcycle, I knew I’d never be able to write about it. Not only could I not print the reality of what I saw, but I would never subject a parent, a brother, a girlfriend to those details. After only moments on the scene, I walked back to my car without any information, without any photographs, and went to work, where I was immediately bombarded with questions about the accident since everyone in the office had been listening to the scanner chatter. As I fielded inquiries about the scene, about the victim, about my (non-existent) photos, I realized I had become a ghoul and knew I couldn’t live that way.
For days I wracked my brain. “What can I do that will actually make the world a better place?” I asked myself. “What talents do I have to share that will change someone’s life?” My mother’s words came creeping back into my head and seemingly possessed my fingers as I dialed the state department of education to get more information. Two years and a master’s degree later I began a teaching career that has spanned nearly two decades.
Even in today’s witch-hunt climate of teacher blame and the almighty test scores, I cherish my job. When I look in the mirror each morning, I know the world is a better place because I choose to help kids communicate their ideas and dreams – those same ideas that will reshape the planet and foster another group of thinkers, artists, and teachers.
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