Don’t underestimate the written word

Believe it or not, my older daughter began writing her college application essay. The prompt: Write about an experience or event that has shaped who you are and who you want to become. I call those events critical incidents.

If we compare our lives to a novel, complete with prologue, chapters and epilogue, the idea of a critical incident is more apparent. These incidents are moments of clarity. They are not the big ticket items in our story, but the necessary details that stop time long enough for clarity to appear. They are the climaxes in our tale.

I wonder what I would write if I had to reflect on the same prompt for my application as a teacher, or even an evaluation? What would be my moments of clarity?

I would have to include my visits with Bob Seims, my principal at Snowshoe Elementary School. One Monday morning after a sleepless weekend fretting about my obvious inability to teach third-graders, he mentioned to me the difference between worrying and working. My experience now tells me a hundred different ways I could have done a better job teaching the wee ones, from observing others to searching out a mentor. But I also know at that moment my worrying lessened and my actual work increased.

Better yet, I might write about the rainy August weekend when I discovered the educator-author Jim Burke. Never again would I attempt to teach reading through intuition and hope for the best, but instead use proven strategies that worked.

Somehow I would include in my essay about the year I had mostly boys. A kind-hearted mom of one of the boys joked with me that it was obvious I didn’t have sons. Lightening bolt! I emerged myself in readings and research. If only I could be blessed with those boys again.

However, I would finally admit, my moment of truth happened during the first month of my career. It was February in Dulce, N.M. on a Sunday night in my first-ever classroom. I was the fourth teacher since September for this class of 10-year-olds. The kids had taken bets on how long I would stay.

Teaching manuals, construction paper, scissors and tape surrounded me while I prepared for Monday’s lessons when time stopped. I gazed across the desks on the chipped linoleum floor at the dark night’s falling snow. The scissors fell silent, and I understood the incredible responsibility it was to teach. It mattered that the children who sat in those desks learned.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

I blinked. “I am a teacher.”

I am not sure 500 words or less can describe the enormity of that moment. I sincerely doubt if it would win any scholarships. It is not anything special, unique or profound. Yet, my time as ‘teacher’ — the worrying, the work, and the learning — has been all of that and more.

Emily Forstner is the professional development coordinator for Mat-Su Borough School District. Opinions expressed in Chalk Talk are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of the Mat-Su Borough School District.