I don’t know if you knew it at the time, the impact you were having.
As a teacher myself now, I’m sure you probably didn’t. Between the whining, the eye rolls, the screaming kids, the complaining parents, I’m sure there were days you felt like giving up. I’m sure there were days you asked yourself: Am I doing anything up here that is making a difference?
But I just want to tell you: You did.
Because even if you felt invisible or like no one was paying attention, I was watching you.
When you called me up to compete in the math game you made up on the fly or asked me to share my story with the class, I was watching you. You taught me to have confidence. You noticed me when I was struggling with fitting in. You helped me realize a kind heart was more important than popularity. You taught me to use my gifts and talents to make the world better. You impacted me in that elementary classroom.
When you asked me if a “fifty-pound robin is fat” in response to my captain obvious question, when you told me “successful people do what others won’t,” I was watching you. You terrified me with your loud voice, your demanding expectations, and your tendency to call out stupidity. But you also inspired me with your vast knowledge of biology and with the fact you made me want to work harder than ever. I learned that even the most seemingly impossible task, like memorizing the name of every bone in a frog, was not impossible. You impacted me in that junior high classroom.
When you were standing up there talking about the literary greats and helping me decode their perspectives, I was watching you. I saw the passion in your eyes when you helped me interpret their words, saw your smile when I finally got it. I read your comments on my paper that told me to keep going, to keep writing, that I had something worth reading. You helped me find my passion just by being you, by showing your enthusiasm, by opening up and letting me see what you loved about literature. You helped me find my own passion in life. You impacted me in that high school classroom.
When you were directing the band, telling us to “count,” cueing us for our solo entrances, I was watching you. A girl who had never taken a trumpet lesson, I was shy and unsure of myself. You showed me that working hard, even on your own, could take you places. You showed me that being a girl didn’t make me less capable of greatness. You showed me how to have a voice, even if it was through my trumpet playing. You impacted me in that band classroom.
Today, thanks to all of you, I am where I am in life. My life isn’t perfect, but that’s okay…because you all taught me how to face challenges with my head held high. You gave me confidence, wisdom, and the strength to pursue my life’s passions.
As a teacher myself now, sometimes I feel invisible in the front of the room. Sometimes I wonder if I’m making a difference, if any of the students are watching. But thanks to all of you, I know the answer.
Sometimes teaching seems like an invisible profession. It is not a job with instant gratification, with instant results. Sometimes it takes years or decades for your work to shine through. Sometimes you never even know it did shine through.
But to all teachers out there, know you are making a difference. Know you are impacting students. Know that somewhere out there, a person is where he or she is because of what you did.
Know that even if you feel invisible, someone is watching you and learning from you.
Lindsay Detwiler is a high school English teacher and published contemporary romance author. To learn more about her books, visit www.lindsaydetwiler.com