Since I was 12, I’ve wanted to teach. I was that (probably annoying) brown-nosing kid who did anything and everything to spend time with my favorite teachers. I was intrigued by the job they did and their ability to resonate with people generations younger than them.
Seventh grade was my turning point because I became a writing tutor. Once a week for about two months, I went downstairs to a second grade classroom and helped eight year olds come up with writing ideas.
In seventh grade, my interest in teachers became my interest in teaching. I had no idea what I was doing, but somehow it made sense. When I tutored, my instincts took control of my actions.
I wouldn’t tutor again for another seven years, but I never forgot that feeling: the feeling that my time with those girls amounted to something valuable for both parties.
I entered college as a social studies education student, but it didn’t take long for me to realize the thing I loved most about history was writing about it, thus leading me to change my path to English.
Those first few years of higher education were rough. I had this deep, intrinsic desire to teach, but I had no idea if I could pull it off. The further I got into my time at school, the less faith I had in my ability to do my future students justice.
I knew I could write. I didn’t know if I could be someone’s teacher. I thought maybe I should stick to what I know. I’ll be a reporter or an author or a columnist in a newspaper, but I sure as hell cannot be responsible for the development of hundreds of kids.
Then, when junior year rolled around, I became a writing tutor once more. The seven-year-old flame that had simmered into a pile of hot coals was reignited.
The act of working with individuals and their writing taught me how much you can know about a person when you unpack the words they took the time to put on paper.
I thought for many years that being a teacher meant being in control of everything happening in your classroom.
It was in the Center for Writing Excellence that I realized there’s no controlling how another person thinks.
It comes down to piecing together the complex puzzle that is another person’s thought process regarding the task they are working on and finding ways to connect that task to the larger life they live.
And it was in the Center for Writing Excellence that I realized if I could do anything forever, I would want it to be that.
My love for writing and teaching grew in tandem, showing me that the skills are similar in a number of ways.
Both mediums take unfamiliar ideas and boil them into a line of reasoning clear enough for another person to understand. Both mediums have an audience. Both mediums are done for others, but also for oneself.
The inside of my head is a chaotic, fast-paced place. I often can’t follow the white water river of thoughts passing through it. I write to take a snapshot of my ideas. I teach to share what I learned from breaking those ideas down.
The beauty of language is being able to externally express the madness a human experiences internally all the time. Every person deserves the skills to process, and from my experience, many people’s processing happens through words.
Good teachers don’t know everything. Good teachers know what they know and the questions to ask and the connections to make to help others break things down in ways that come naturally.
There are systems to help guide reading and writing, but there’s no formula that will speak to the way everyone learns. Teachers help people identify what makes sense to them.
There never comes a point when you stop being a learner and start being a teacher. Humans teach by existing and learn by watching others exist. The two cannot be separated.
Each and every interaction a person — whether it be a teacher or a student or a plumber or a nurse or a chef or a singer — can teach them something about humanity. However, to learn, you must notice and you must care.
The reality of teaching is that not every student will be a success story. A wise man once said ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink.’ There’s limits to a teacher’s impact, but the chance for an impact to be made is enough for me.
With each new student comes an opportunity to give them something they need. Some kids need help with comma rules and a good laugh; others need you to give them encouragement and respect they don’t receive outside of school walls.
I have been lucky enough to receive support to focus on finding what I’m made for. I’ve had people cheering me on the whole way through. I hope to give an ounce of that to kids who are still on that journey.
I have no idea if I will make a good teacher, but I know no amount of failure will make me stop caring.
Allessi can be reached at [email protected].
