What will you make, anyway?

A love letter to future teachers

“So, you want to be a teacher?” They ask, brows raised, more than a hint of judgment in their voice.

“What will you make doing that, anyway?”

What will you make?

Let me tell you what you’ll make.

You’ll make bad days turn to good ones.

You’ll make a classroom into a sanctuary.

You’ll make lessons into adventures.

Dreams into actualities.

For some, you’ll make — and be — a second home.

You’ll make kids clamor to be in your class because you’re that teacher.

You’ll make doctors and counselors and judges. You’ll make architects and engineers and artists and athletes.

And–you’ll make community. Because of you, the places we call home will be a little bit more open, more willing to hold each other’s stories, because you’ve held theirs.

I can’t quite explain it, but because of you, a group that enters as a roster of names will leave as a family, as an extension of you.

Because of you, someone will live with a little more confidence.

Because of you, someone will be a little kinder.

Because of you, someone will smile a little wider.

Because of you, someone will find their passion in math or English or science or history or sports or foreign language or drama or art or music.

Do you see the power you’ll hold, future teacher?

You have the power to lift a kid up.

The power to speak life into a child.

You have the power to show people they have something to contribute–always.

You have the power to model peace, acceptance, and unconditional love.

You have the power to tell a kid that the world is a better place because of her.

The power to tell him the world needs him.

You have the power to raise a student’s confidence.

The power to be who the next generation looks up to…and…both terrifyingly and impressively…wants to be.

What will you make?

You’ll make your kids work harder than they ever had to for the A. And you’ll make them prouder than they ever have been for that grade.

You’ll make the hardest problems conquerable–but only with enough sweat and effort.

You’ll make a successful test grade feel like winning an Olympic medal.

You’ll make kids laugh, and they’ll make you laugh.

You’ll make kids want to learn, and they’ll reignite a love of learning in you.

You’ll make them see the best in themselves…

Which will bring out the best in you.

You’ll make teaching what you teach second only to whom you teach.

What will you make?

You’ll make mistakes. And I hope you’ll lean into them, teaching your students how to grow from theirs, too.

You’ll make space for your kids to learn in ways they never have before, and they’ll make that space for you, too.

You’ll make the phone call no teacher ever wants to make, but that any of us who have been here long enough have made.

You’ll also make the phone call that a parent has wished for since the first day of PreK. And this year, this day, you get to be the bearer of good news.

You’ll make colleagues who will become your friends and champions. You’ll learn from those who have walked ahead of you. And, soon, you’ll make a way for those who will walk after you.

What will you make?

You’ll make students feel like heroes…

And you’ll become theirs.

You’ll make kids believe in themselves again…

And they’ll help you believe in yourself, too.

You’ll make a new path for them…

And find a new one for yourself, too.

You’ll make memories.

You’ll make magic.

You’ll make light.

And because light can’t be captured or contained, your students will reflect that light, making our nation shine brighter day by day…classroom by classroom…teacher by teacher.

Go light the world, Teachers.[1]

[1] Thank you for this beautiful last line, Lisa Witcher. And thank you for turning on the light in my classroom when I wasn’t sure where the switch was.