So, something interesting happened on the way home from a family holiday gathering. Something that helped me see (once again) that I float in an ocean of stories if only I take the time to notice.
Photo Credit: Vinoth Chandar via Compfight
Driving to beat the winter storm that threatened to dump freezing rain and then 9 inches of new snow on southern Wisconsin, I left for a family visit in my 16 year old car. Just outside Madison, one-by-one the dashboard warning lights flashed on. Darkness had fallen, and now freezing rain. Ice accumulated on the windshield as the wipers slowed almost to a halt. I stopped to see what might be wrong with the car, but on a early Saturday evening, all the shops were closed. Finally, when the ABS light came on, I took the next exit on the Beltway, found a large (mostly empty) parking lot, and pulled in. The car died right there.
While the story of my family’s rescue of me is interesting — they just happened to be driving by Madison toward the same destination from a different direction — the ending to this story that I want to tell is about what happened at the car repair place two days later. This ending reminds me that there are stories hiding in the most unexpected places. And these stories are for me (and perhaps for others) the very stuff of life.
The mechanics had just begun to decide the fate of my car when I found a vinyl chair in the waiting room. Next to me was a woman, about my age, working on a laptop. I pulled mine out of my bag to work. Whatever we were working on, however, wasn’t as interesting as the possibility of a good conversation, so we got to talking. We soon discovered our shared connection as educators and began asking questions. And telling stories.
Where do you teach?
What’s it like to teach in Wisconsin these days? Have things changed after the fights over public education and budgets that Governor Walker had initiated?
How did you decide to be a teacher? What keeps you there working with the kids each day?
Turns out she was a school counselor in a district north of Madison and had been in the schools in various capacities for 29 years. I talked of my own move into teaching at the ripe old age of 42. She told of a long-term passion for it. We told stories about why we did this work despite the changes in our profession.
Soon a man stood up, walked over to us from across the room, and introduced himself. He’d overheard our conversation and wanted us to know that he was livid about the changes he’d seen. Coming from Switzerland, though now settled in the US permanently, he couldn’t imagine why the US was so set on bashing its teachers or privatizing its public education system. He told stories about the learning his children had done in the “excellent PUBLIC schools” in Madison.
While we were talking, two others joined in the conversation and began talking about schools their children had attended, teachers they’d had, and more generally about meaningful work, about families, about learning.
Finally, a woman who had recently arrived to the room caught my eye and smiled. She leaned toward the conversation and said, “Thirty-three years in middle school and high school in Connecticut, with some time off to raise a family. I’m retired now, but it was the best job for me.” Then she told us a story about a brave and scared girl she’d known back in 1963, now fifty years ago, a girl this older teacher had taken under her wing. Turns out that the girl had been moved by the connection with her teacher so, when hearing of her teacher’s pregnancy, she had entered her teacher’s name in a contest. A local business was to give away a new baby stroller, which the girl had signed up to receive “for my ‘mom’s’ new baby.”
The story brought tears to our eyes.
Imagine a group of adults sitting silently on vinyl chairs on the day before the day before Christmas, when all that should have been done hadn’t been finished, collectively waiting for broken cars to be repaired, sitting silently and teary-eyed because of some kind act that a child did so many years ago, and because of the awesome example of compassion offered by a woman who carried this story in her heart for fifty years.
One by one the cars got fixed. As people left the room they paused to shake hands, solemnly smile, and to thank the others in the room for the stories and the chance to meet. Each left with a look of puzzled wonder in her eyes about what had just happened.
Thank you so much for sharing this story at a time when I find myself reflecting on my work and why I do it (and wondering if continuing to do it is the right thing for me). This is an inspiring and reaffirming reminder of the power of being an educator.
(On another note, what’s up with your car?)
Hi, Kim.
And thank you for reading this! I needed to tell it because it really was so unexpected; who would have looked for food for the soul, for instance, in a room full of vinyl chairs and people waiting long hours to spend lots of money to fix something broken…
I think every teacher I know is wondering if teaching is the right thing to do. Please know that, though small comfort, your work has made a difference for me.
The alternator went out, and with it the battery. Which prompted my brother and I to remember how, for a fair chunk of our adult lives, we had no choice but to replace these broken parts ourselves, usually on the coldest days when weak links finally break. He: a timing belt on a street in Maryland, an alternator in Minneapolis in mid-winter. Me: a starter in a snowbank near the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, a water pump at -10. This experience brought back memories of frozen fingers.
Tears here, too, from a distance of both time and space.
I agree that every teacher I know is wondering whether teaching is really the right thing to be doing. Myself included. The big picture has gotten so murky that the only way I survive is by holding onto the small moments, the little things I do and that I hear about that make a small difference, but that might, in 50 years, become life-altering. Maybe that’s ultimately why we became teachers. We can’t see the future, but we can imagine it, one child at a time; one moment of grace at a time.
Steve, you have been one of the greatest gifts in my life this year. I have enjoyed getting to know you through your words, and can’t wait to meet you in person! Happy New Year! (anti-spam: “by praise” — AMEN!)
So good to find support in my community! It’s nice to know that we all feel the same way and it bolsters my resolve to keep on keepin’ on in spite of the dredge that muddies my vision (and sometimes, spirit). I’m very sorry about your car, Steve, but actually, I’m kind of not. If it hadn’t have happened, neither would this opportunity. Like Mary Lee, I, too, am grateful for you!
Kim,
My vision is muddled, too. Ugh. The last two weeks before break could not have been less inspiring for me, or for the students I teach. I think that’s why I hadn’t posted anything on this blog since late November — nothing I did seemed all that interesting or important! 🙁
Maybe a new year will be different? If it is, I can sure as heck attribute the change to the energy I get from the likes of you and Mary Lee!
And, yes, it really was a drag to have to wait for the car…but…that wait (and an open heart) helped to create a space where something completely unexpectedly wonderful happened, too. There’s something in that experience for me to remember as the new year sits on the launchpad ready to take off like a rocket. It took a forced wait for me to actually listen and ask. Why?
Oh my, Mary Lee! Your words (and your spirit!) have been a huge thing for me this year, too! I absolutely love it that you hear your teaching through the ears of a poet.