What's the most under-appreciated profession in the world?
My guess is that it's teaching.
I'm science guy and when I want to understand something, I do a lot of research. A lot of people say I'm obsessive about it. All those educational statistics you've read about: Class size; teacher-student ratio; the number of teachers with advanced degrees; a school's grade; socio-economics and demographics - surprisingly, they make very little difference to a child's academic performance. So what does?
Parental involvement and their teachers.
Respecting the former, that's another article. Respecting the latter, I would opine that the difference between a good teacher and a bad one is the difference between night and day. A good teacher can put your child a half year ahead of competing classes and a bad one, a half year behind. Either way, teachers change the lives of the children they teach. Since elementary school, my daughter has been in Advanced Classes and has had, with few exceptions, spectacular teachers.
She's now entering Grade 12 and is besieged by universities trying to entice her with incentives and, to be frank, outright bribery. In what can only be described as the height of moral hypocrisy, I have absolutely no objection. For all those years, I tutored her and her girlfriends daily (after school), mostly in math, science and ... argumentation (they're now all Phd's). All through elementary school, I also volunteered once-a-week for half-a-day and annually, coordinated class Science Fair projects. I've had a front-row seat to see what great teaching does, and it's astonishing.
In the United States, the Tuesday of the first full week in May is Teacher Appreciation Day. In reality, it's primarily for elementary school teachers ... the poor middle- and high-school teachers are lucky if anyone even remembers. The elementary school teachers, though, get cards, coffee cups and knick-knacks of one kind or another. Some still get the traditional apple and a few might receive a bottle of wine.
It's a nice gesture of appreciation.
Otherwise, one could be forgiven for wondering why they do it. It's a lot of work and the stress of dealing with disruptive children is only eclipsed by the stress of dealing with their parents. The money's not great, especially when compared to the compensation received by other professions requiring similar lengths of education and training. Even the Platos and Aristotles amongst them live pretty humble lifestyles. Moreover, they will neither see nor hear from, or of, most of the children over whom they had so much influence. They will rarely get to see the fruits of their labor, but cogs in a machine designed to create intense human-human bonds, and then dismiss them as if they'd never existed.
On each Teacher Appreciation Day, Katie, my daughter, and I would visit her homeroom teacher and tell her we had no gift on that day, but would have something on the last day of school. Towards the end of the year, I would write a poem. We would take pictures or find some artwork, super-impose the poem and buy an ornate picture frame. For whatever reason, the part of a woman's brain that processes poetry is also the part that processes tears.
Once a year, Katie and I still go back to her elementary school to visit her teachers. More tears. And, even after all these years, those poems still hang prominently on the walls behind their desks.
The poem featured in this post, as I'm sure you've surmised, was for Ms. Mayer's, Katie's Fourth Grade teacher. Earlier, I published the poem we gave to Ms. Hodge, her Third Grade teacher. Eventually, I plan to post them all. (Don't ask why I didn't, logically, start with the Kindergarten teacher and move up. I don't recall. The sleep deprivation associated with Steemit has a way of addling your brain.)
While most people would rather receive a Mercedes-Benz, there is, nevertheless, something about the singularity of receiving a poem, written about you, that makes it especially poignant. Especially when it is freely given ... and given at the end of the year when reciprocation is no longer possible. No human being, irrespective of wealth or status, can say, "I have one too." It is a thing you cannot buy, it is a thing that must be earned.
And, unlike a Mercedes-Benz, it will not deteriorate over time. Indeed, long after you are gone, and all those you knew have passed away, the words will live on like echoes from the past. Somewhere, someday, a person browsing a library shelf or rummaging through a dusty trunk in an attic, will come across your poem and ponder: "What so moved a poet that he expended a seemingly ridiculous amount of time and effort ... for no apparent reason, other than to make the subject of the poem emote?" And that's what Shakespeare understood: While people are interested in things that other people do, they are fascinated by why they do them.
And therein lies the rub: I don't think the poems had such an effect because they were such great poetry. I think it's because someone said, "I know what you did was far more than what was expected or required ... and so, now, I shall reciprocate in kind. One sacrifice ... shall be repaid by another."
Quill.
*****
For those of you who can't magnify the original:
Adieu ... but not forgotten
She walked alone, down halls unknown,
Her footsteps echoed loud,
And of her mien, a look serene,
Like whispered truth avowed.
With her in mind, came men behind,
A dozen men in suits,
And as she neared, a sense of fear,
As soldiers snapped salutes.
She cut her pace, for this the place,
She paused before the door,
Was near the end, for this a friend,
… Her teacher from Grade Four.
Yet in she went … the President,
And sat beside the bed,
To give by word what word had stirred,
To leave no thing unsaid.
“All Men decide, for what they’ll bide,
That thing for which they’ll stand,
Forsake rewards, they draw their swords,
And fists they make of hands.
For it they fight, the costs despite,
All Men, they’re so inclined,
Means naught to live, if naught you’ll give,
By this, how Men defined.
No trophy house, no trophy spouse,
… Where then is your gold,
For things you fought, what has it wrought,
What thing has it extolled?”
As words provoked, pulled back the cloak,
Pulled curtains, from the glass,
Stood down below, from years ago,
Ms. Mayer’s … Fourth Grade Class.
“All twenty-two, they came for you,
Pay homage they, perforce,
Like Exodus to Genesis,
Back waters to their source.
So what of you … what did you do,
… What stars upon your flag,
Where your price, your sacrifice,
… Of what have you to brag?
Redeemed namesake, they’d history make,
Galbraiths … Nobel Prize,
For sun’s effects, we’d thank Alex,
For science, he’d revise.
Lenny/Vaughn, to music drawn,
Millions sing their muse,
Things to say, she found Broadway,
Would Maddie, Oscar choose.
Villain destroyer; David, a lawyer,
And Dharma, teaches law,
Seth and stars, he went to Mars,
The world he’d hold in awe.
Cancer’s cure, McLain procured,
Hope … they call Van Gogh,
Ambassador to Russia,
Back home did Andrey go.
Knowledge possessor, Kayleen professor,
First Harvard, now at Yale,
Of Jordan’s words, they’re often heard,
For mastered she the tale.
Christina … she’s a general,
Sean, he’s in robotics,
Emmy’s mission, become physician,
Brandon, aeronautics.
The Genghis Mound, Alyssa found,
Olympics, Taylor won,
Though grays my hair … invokes my prayers,
Flies Nicki … Air Force One.
What of your gold? It’s us … behold,
You paid for it, potential,
Beneath success; lies it, duress,
Your sacrifice, essential.
Flags unfurled, we changed the world,
For learned from you, persistence,
The human race, it much effaced,
If not for your existence.”
For what she’d done, came one by one,
Came they did, begotten,
Chosen few, to her adieu,
Adieu … but not forgotten.
