What do you see as your role as a teacher?

As a child I loved school; the playground, my friends, the little yellow cartons of milk--all of it. My parents believed that a good education was the best gift they could ever give me and worked hard to do so. My mom, a kindergarten teacher, found the perfect school for me and my father, a salesman, schooled me in classic rock on our 45 minute drive to it each morning. The small size of my school allowed for a close relationship with my teachers which I treasured. The teachers were interested, caring adults who wanted us to be happy.

As I started 4^th grade things changed. My dad was in and out of hospitals; hooked up to IV's and machines, in a wheelchair with a halo on his head. All of the equipment terrified me, but my mom showed me how to decorate the bars of his halo with Chanukah lights and he was still my dad. My parents were always truthful with me about what was happening, but school was a different story. My teachers knew what was going on, but never said a word to me about it; 'school should be her happy place, let's keep the sadness out' was their unspoken agreement. But you can't keep the sadness out when it's part of a child's daily life. April of my 5^th grade year my father died unexpectedly. When I went back to school everyone pretended as though nothing had happened; they didn't want to upset me. I remember wishing I could tell my teachers what I was feeling, but stopping myself because I didn't want to make them sad too. If one teacher had given me permission to cry, or if one classmate had understood the tightness in my throat, I think that I would have been able to let it out and then move onto the school work at hand but, as it was, I just sat in class wondering how everyone else managed to be so happy. I learned then that school was where you were free to express your feelings-- unless your feelings were sad, or could upset others, or make them uncomfortable.

Life went on for my mother and me and, though it was never easy, it was ours and we had each other. The day before I started 8^th grade we moved to South Carolina. After a year in a local private school there that just didn't fit, my mom and step-father reluctantly put me in public school where they feared that, instead of being 'Jillian: an individual', I would be just one more in a sea of faces struggling to stay afloat. And it's true; high school was a different world which I found restricting, impersonal and lonely.

Christmas of my senior year my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. My step-dad was a wreck, and I knew I couldn't handle things alone, so I told one of my teachers what was happening. When I started Leslie's AP English class the previous August I had hated it; had hated her. But Leslie saw something in me that she thought was worth the hassle and refused to give up. I resisted, but over time began to trust her. So one day, with too many thoughts swirling around in my head, I went and told her everything; what was happening to my mom, how I was scared and numb and confused, but knew I couldn't let it show because I needed to be strong for her. Leslie didn't pity me, didn't treat me differently than she did anyone else, just made sure that I knew she was there to talk to. Even though I didn't take her up on her offer, just knowing that someone was there and that they knew what I was going through made it easier to breathe. Early that February my mom died. When I started back at school it was Deja vu: people avoided my eyes, spoke only of cheerful things, and never let the conversation lull for fear that I might bring up the exact topics they were so carefully tip-toeing around. Everyone but Leslie, that is. Leslie looked me square in the eye and hugged me, then just sat there and rubbed my back as I cried for the first time. She ended class early everyday that week and just talked to me. Whenever I had bad-dead-mom-days, Leslie could tell and always offered to talk, even after I graduated; my first semester of college she called or e-mailed at least once a week to make sure I was okay. Leslie taught me the difference between what it means to teach, and what it means to be a Teacher.

Now that I am on the road to becoming an educator, the classes that most interest me are those that focus on the student as an individual rather than as a learning receptacle. Some say that I'm following in my mothers' footsteps, but I think (and hope) I'm leaving my own. My life has led me to all kinds of experiences with all kinds of teachers, and I've been given the gift to decide who I want to be. My goal in life is to be happy, and if I can do for one student what Leslie did for me, I know that I will be.

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