Hey.
You.
Yes, you in the cardigan.
With the orthopedic shoes, the lanyard with 10 keys on it, and the dry-erase marks on your forearm.
Can I have just, like, two minutes of your time?
I know you’re busy. (Trust me, I know. I’ve seen the little stacks of sticky note reminders on your desktop monitor, the planner filled to its margins, the various notes on your phone that make sense only to you, the multiple calendars you have between your work and personal lives that may or may not be synced with each other.)
Let me hold your bag for a minute. The giant binder under your arm. Give me your lunch bag too. And that rolling cart of who-knows-what you’re dragging behind you. Just let me hold it all.
Doesn’t that feel better? To not be carrying so much?
OK. I want to tell you something.
What you are doing matters.
I’m not talking about your more obvious wins. It doesn’t just matter when your lesson goes perfectly, you get great feedback, or when a kid has a breakthrough. Let’s be honest, those are few and far between anyway.
I’m not even talking about the “above and beyond.” The clubs you lead, the banners you paint, the early mornings and late nights, the sports you coach. Although those matter too.
What you are doing matters on a much smaller level.
It’s in the most fleeting of moments. The 4-second utterance of an encouraging phrase a student will remember well into adulthood. The sometimes daily choice to offer a clean slate. The creaking open of the closet where you keep feminine products and other hygiene items for students; the hundreds of silent thank-yous you’ll never get to hear for them.
It equally matters what you don’t do. That beat you take when a 6th grader says something horrible instead of responding in kind. The grade you drop so a volleyball player can get on the bus. Every time you model patience, grace, or forgiveness instead of the world just past the parking lot that runs on retribution, isolation, and a “me first” mentality.
I imagine each of those moments as little bricks. And with them, brick by tiny brick, you are building a better world.
Oh. Another thing.
In case you’ve forgotten …
You matter.
Sure, I don’t know you.
But I know the dedication it takes to enter a profession you know is neither lucrative nor valued in our country but you also know makes a difference. And I know the bravery and sacrifice in making that choice anyway.
I know that at parties or gatherings, you’ll tell people you’re a teacher and they’ll say, “I’m sorry,” or “Your summers off must be so fun!” or “I could never do that—I’m not patient enough” (as if patience is the only job requirement) or just give you a look of pity. And whether you’ve dreamed of being a teacher your whole life or are just trying this gig out, I know the resolve it takes to smile and nod instead of launching into how wrong they are.
I know the tears you’ve cried in your car, the desperation to press that snooze alarm one more time, the times you’ve looked for other jobs on your lunch break, the times you’ve thought—and it felt so true— I can’t do it anymore. And maybe it was true. And that’s OK too.
You have my utmost respect for every day that you show up and try your hardest. Whether that’s 40 days or 40 years.
You’re not invisible.
Anyway. Thanks for letting me say all that. I hope you know, too, that when it seems hardest, there really are a lot of people who believe the same thing and would say the same thing if they had the chance.
I’m here anytime you need a pep talk.
