All in a Day’s Work

Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable gift and not as a hard duty.
Albert Einstein

When Alexander the Great visited Diogenes and asked whether he could do anything for the famed teacher, Diogenes replied: “Only stand out of my light.” Perhaps someday we shall know how to heighten creativity. Until then, one of the best things we can do for creative men and women is to stand out of their light.
John W. Gardner

Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths theater.
Gail Godwin


Teaching, as any member of the profession will attest, has its rough moments. There are days when little of what a teacher has prepared works well. And, to make the tale more heartrending, the days when an educator presses the right buttons and the love of learning takes hold of every person in the room, the days when every student ravenously consumes the items on a lesson plan—resulting in an adrenaline rush that leaves everyone flushed and energized—are, indeed, rare. Yet the memories of these magical class periods are what sustain educators through the agonizing instances when, regardless of how hard they may try, the students’ vacant stares tell them, and bluntly, that the aims for the day have fallen short of the mark.

Still, the rewards of teaching, which come in small and large measures, far outweigh the frustrations. What’s more, the incidents that validate an educator’s labor often take place outside of the classroom—in the hallways, when a passing student pays a compliment that leaves the teacher feeling radiant; or when a teacher discovers that something a student learned in one’s class makes a moment in another class luminous; or when a teacher receives an email with a message of gratitude from a former pupil. Such occurrences are marvelous, and on the day I start to write this piece, I was the beneficiary of several comments that made my day—perhaps, even, my month.

Wednesdays are half-days at Balboa Academy. These afternoons are often devoted to workshops designed to help teachers to continue growing in the profession. On this particular occasion, the workshop was about, of all things, improving the way we teach writing.

I arrived a few minutes early and was walking toward my assigned table, greeting colleagues along the way, when a teacher whom I had never met before approached me.

“Dr. Sirias?”

“Yes?”

“My son is in your Spanish class and he absolutely loves it. He been telling us every day about the stories they are reading and discussing in class. He’s now giving me the titles of books he wants me to buy. I’ve never seen him so excited about reading. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

I tried, as best as I could, to deflect her compliments. I stated that her son is a bright young man, a terrific student—which he is—and that I had little to do with his newfound enthusiasm for literature. Still, as I sat down to await the start of the workshop, I was feeling quite elated.

My group soon began its task: to learn how to assess the skills of individual writers. Wanting to concentrate on a particular essay, I stepped outside of the large room in which we had congregated and sat down on a comfortable chair in the hallway to read the piece in silence. As I approached the midway point in the student’s paper, I felt a human presence next to me. I looked up and recognized a teacher from the middle school.

“Dr. Sirias, sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I simply wanted to tell you that my daughter loves your Spanish class.”

Again, I made an awkward attempt to ward off the praise and then, blushing profusely, I thanked my colleague for her kind words.

The rest of the afternoon I worked with added enthusiasm, thanks to the statements that helped to validate my daily efforts. After we concluded working that afternoon, I rose from my seat, ready to head home, when a third teacher approached me.

“Dr. Sirias, my daughter feels that your writing class is inspiring. She has never been eager to sit down to write an essay until now. Thank you so much.”

I wish I could say that I receive such tributes every day, but the truth is quite the contrary: on most days, like all teachers, I go about my business without accolades. But neither do I expect them. Nevertheless, such instances of recognition make up for the moments of frustration during which I feel I had done everything within my power to make a difference, only to fall short of the expectations I have set for myself. But today, what made this afternoon especially moving is that the flattering remarks came from fellow teachers—from others who, like me, know, and intimately, how difficult it is to perform magic in the classroom.