Of all the Commandments, the wisest may be the first:
“You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them or serve them.“
Humans are fooled by images, and we are especially fooled by images created by humans.
We serve many masters, and we serve without thought.
I walk home in the dark December afternoons, walking by the homes of my neighbors, and the windows flicker with the light from boxes mounted on walls, telling stories of those who can afford to share their stories on the networks, stories with consequences.
I am different when I am outside, even when surrounded by asphalt and buildings. I feel feral. I lose words as I gain sight.
North Cape May near the winter solstice
Each step in the dark reminds me of what I cannot remember once I am inside again.; I am left with the feeling of knowing I have lost something I knew a moment ago, but surrounded and embraced by the world of the human, I lose the world.
It’s not about passion of the teacher, finding the soul of a child, or lighting a fire in a kid’s brain. It never was.
It’s simply showing a child the world that’s herenow beyond the human noise.
Basil flower on the windowsill
The
recent rush to classroom love-fests fails to acknowledge the value of
the old curmudgeon who taught a few decades ago, gruff yet beloved,
because she was not the point of class.
The world was.
Why do you think books matter to children so much?
I used to be a doc, the real kind with tongue blades. I am now entering my 12th year of teaching. Students often ask me why I left medicine.
Artwork seen on a street in Honfleur
I used to be a doctor, the kind with a stethoscope, the kind licensed to hurt you for your own good. It puzzles children to learn that a physician would walk away from medicine in order to teach, and there are days I am baffled myself.
Students often ask me why I left medicine. Here’s what I thought 5 years ago, and it still holds.
I liked medicine. I love teaching. I did not know that this would be true when I left medicine, so while it is true, it is not enough to explain why I left. Why leave something you like, especially when it pays ridiculously well?
Every year children ask me this, and so far I have not quite gotten
it right. I thought I had it right, but high school sophomores would
kind of shake just a little bit sideways. I wasn’t fooling them.
I think I got it right now.
Horseshoe crab spine
I saw a lot of bad stuff in hospitals. I saw a lot of good stuff,
too, but good stuff can be found in a lot of places. The truly bad stuff
has a home in the hospital.
The unlucky (an elderly woman who slowly died from an infection
caused by an errant piece of metal ripping through her car’s floor,
riveting in her thigh).
The doomed (a woman burned over most of her body, still conscious,
still talking, immediately before we intubated her, rendering her
speechless–we knew she was doomed when we did this. We did it anyway.)
The curious (two babies sharing the same torso, the same heart, the same fate).
The geographically screwed (an Asian toddler who needed a new heart,
but who could not afford one, twisting away towards death as she lived
in an American hospital as an alien).
The innocent (children wasting away from a virus we barely
understood, acquired from a mother’s heroin habit or her lover’s
proclivities).
Walking on a dredge fill n Cape May
I was very good at diagnosis, and not bad at making things better once a diagnosis was made. A few were better than me, but not many.
When you are surrounded by hurt, there are two ways to respond if
you want to remain functional–fix it, or pretend it does not exist. I
did a lot of fixing.
If you do medicine long enough, and if you are paying attention, you give death its due. It’s real, it’s usually ugly, and it’s inevitable.
I can’t beat death–took me awhile to get to that realization, but I got there. And it’s liberating.
FIshermen’s Memorial, Cape May
Turns out living isn’t the goal–living well is what matters.
I was pretty good at helping people live longer. Now I’m getting good at helping people live well.
I
thought my job mattered before, but had my doubts in the pitiful wail
of a dying toddler, bruised and bleeding as we laid our hands, our
technology, and finally our fists in futile CPR on her tiny body as it
cooled its way back to entropy.
A life worth living is our only compensation against the greedy hand of death.
So I help children carve out a life worth living.
I’m a teacher.
If you teach, teach as though lives depend on it. If you think this is excessive, get out.
Photos by me or Leslie–feel free to use under CC.
