I Became A Teacher When I Knocked on a Trailer Door…
A siege of panic struck me as the car I was driving pulled into a vast open field. I used to think that this would be an unusual sight in a college town, but here I was, rural as rural gets, staring at a solitary trailer in the middle of this open sea of nothingness. Only four months removed from the conclusion of my teacher credentialing program, I was nowhere near where I expected to be.
I was in hot pursuit of the idealism that put me in this position to begin with, the idea that I became a teacher to save each child that walked into my classroom (regardless of whether not they were in actual need of saving). I expected to find Tammy*, one of my students, behind the rickety doors of the trailer before me, hopefully in the presence of her parents, ready to hear my rehearsed speech of why I needed her in my classroom the next day after a lengthy and unexplained absence.
Tammy arrived in my third grade classroom a few weeks before with no warning. Her appearance was unkempt, streaks of dirt on her cheeks and arms, clothes that didn’t quite fit her small frame, and a broken backpack dangling from her left shoulder. I knew without hearing a word that she had traveled miles upon miles to show up in my classroom that morning. I wondered what she had seen and what lead her to this moment. I wondered how much sleep she had the night before.
In the weeks that followed, Tammy drifted in an out of my classroom, sometimes showing up hours late or not at all. She struggled to make friends. She was tough, withdrawn, unsure of the normal cues that a child figures out by being in a classroom. Raising a hand, adding to a discussion, flipping through a book with equal parts excitement and curiosity, lining up to walk outside for recess. These school day rituals seemed lost on her.
When her father opened the door to the trailer, I didn’t expect to be treated so kindly, or for her father to receive my advice and pleas for support so enthusiastically. He proudly showed me an old cardboard box filled with picture books that belonged to Tammy. I couldn’t muster the resolve to tell him that his daughter couldn’t read those books, at least not yet. I didn’t dare ask where Tammy’s mother was, if she was even a presence in her life at all.
Tammy came to class the next day, her hair freshly brushed, clothes a bit less disheveled than the week before, a little more alert, a little more enthusiastic. My idealism burst forward in full and forward motion. I worked with her on her reading fluency, her math facts, and helped her make a new friend on the playground. She attacked the day with more enthusiasm than I had seen in the weeks previous. She no longer drifted in and out of the day. She was present.
After four months, I finally felt like a teacher.
Your first glimpse inside of a classroom that is your own is not always the most comforting or even empowering. There are materials to prep, lessons to plan, work to grade, walls to cover in posters, bulletin boards, and borders. It often feels like walking into the biggest mess you’ll ever see in your life that has to be cleaned up that instant, only you don’t know which item to put away first, or even where they belong to begin with.
I didn’t save the girl from the trailer. In fact, Tammy disappeared two weeks later and never returned to my classroom. My thoughts often drift in her direction, accompanied by a strong hope that she somehow escaped the cycle of poverty that she never asked for or that she had the opportunity to stay in one place for a bit longer. Even though I still fear the worst for Tammy, I’m thankful for the gift she gave me that day she came to school.
Teaching is so much more than an ever-revolving set of standards, the newest set of buzz words and phrases, or how we use the latest and greatest tools in our classrooms. It’s not even the moment that you earn your teaching credential. It’s the moment you are compelled to do something you never thought you’d do for a child that isn’t yours. Its the moment you realize that you have the power to change someone’s world, even if it lasts for a day.
It’s the moment you knock on a trailer door in the middle of nowhere, just to get a girl to come to school.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the students.
