I could never be a teacher.
Who wants to deal with angsty teens all day? Honestly, I annoy myself. Kids in my classes bother me, with their constant bickering and petty problems. And group discussions are the worst.
Not to mention all the grading. In my class, I would either a) never give homework or b) give everyone, except the people that I didn’t like, an A.
And seniors? No way. I would never want to deal with their senioritis. Just because they’re leaving doesn’t mean they can act like they have no cares in the world.
Because, unlike them, I would have cares.
I would care that they were leaving, and that the possibility existed that they would forget about me. I would care that I might never see them again, or that we would lose touch. I would care that they had a future, a life, a career ahead of them.
I would care about whether they learned as much as they could from me, if I did my job as well as I could and if I was one of those teachers that they would always remember. I would care about them seeing me cry. I would care about saying goodbye.
But mostly, I would care about the changes, about the new group that I would have to say goodbye to, the new memories that I would make and worry about forgetting.
I can’t be a teacher because I couldn’t deal with losing them every year. Although the impact of one person may seem small and insignificant, it has meaning. For me this year, it meant a new passion for journalism. It meant a new sense of humor, a new perspective on music. It meant friendship.
I admire teachers for their perseverance, their courage, their acceptance. Because, quite frankly, I could never be one of them.