Let Your Wealth Pour Through the Doors

I decided not to march in Columbia Wednesday.

Not because I don’t believe in the cause—oh believe me, I do—but more so for technical reasons: I’ve missed too many days for field trips, and I’ve exhausted my personal days. Plus, perhaps my school will call upon me to fill in for a teacher who did make the trek to Columbia, or help with some other duty while we’re short on staff. And I will gladly do it for that colleague who sacrificed their time to stand up for the rest of us.

South Carolina hasn’t exactly been a chart topper for public education over the decades. We’re consistent national champion contenders for unsavory titles, such as men killing their spouses or drunk driving, but we generally claw and fight not to finish last in the education rankings. Louisiana has slipped below us thanks to their devastating “school choice” initiatives (more on that later).

Since South Carolina doesn’t rank high, I’ve had people insinuate to me that my colleagues and I must also be subpar teachers. That’s right. According to them, we are a magical sanctuary for bad teachers, and we alone have guided us to the bottom of the rankings.

I’ve worked three careers in my life: reporter, bartender, and teacher. I have a knack for choosing professions where people who have never worked them think they know more about your job than you do.

But people still often ask me what it’s like to teach high school, and most of the time I don’t get into too much detail. I tell them I love my job, which is true, and I love working with the kids. I suppose it was kind of inevitable given my pedigree: three of my grandparents were teachers.

My Papa became an agriculture teacher at Boiling Springs High School after World War II. He farmed as well. He generally taught the kids who had no shot at going to college; back then, society wasn’t convincing desperate parents and anxiety-ridden kids that they were worthless if they didn’t go to higher education.

Papa died suddenly of a heart attack in 1991. I was 12. A lot of those grief-stricken days are a blur, but I do have one very clear memory: his visitation at the funeral home. I remember it because the line stretching out to the parking lot resembled a new iPhone release at an Apple store. The funeral home employees said it may have been a record for them.

Former students of Papa’s comprised the bulk of that line. They told stories of how he had set them straight. How he believed in them when no one else did. How he gave them a purpose in life. One man told me he had given his son Papa’s first name as the boy’s first, and how he had also given his son Papa’s last name as his middle. My last name. The same name that my students, and now most of my friends, call me.

My Papa meant so much to someone as a teacher that he named his son after him.

At the time, I was too young and heartbroken to fully grasp what this all meant. But over the years, and especially now that I am about to finish year 13 as a teacher, I understand. Papa didn’t die a rich man. But his wealth poured through the doors of that funeral home that night.

So when someone really wants to know what it’s like to be a teacher, I suppose I could tell them the following:

I’ve dove into a fight without thinking about my own safety because I was certain one student was about to get hurt badly.

I’ve had crying students tell me I’m the closest thing to a parent they’ve ever really known.

A parent once said my fellow English 2 Honors teachers and I were doing “the devil’s work” with a particular assignment we had given her child.

I’ve helped more than one student catch up on missed assignments because of the time they missed after an unsuccessful suicide attempt.

I’ve looked into a student’s eyes and seen him weigh the pros and cons of punching me in the face.

This year, for mandatory training, I learned how to plug bullet wounds and apply tourniquets. Did you know you’re supposed to keep jamming the cloth into the hole or twisting the strap no matter how much the student screams and cries?

I’ve kept secret stashes of food in my room for a student who went hungry at home.

I had a principal at my last school threaten to send the resource officer to our homes if he suspected us of faking illness when we took a sick day.

I’ve taught Bloods. I’ve taught Crips.

I’ve taught boys who were too terrified to tell their own family that they liked other boys, or girls who couldn’t tell them they liked other girls.

I’ve had a mother blame me for her daughter’s drug use outside of school.

I’ve had more than one parent actively work to make me lose my job rather than hold his or her child accountable for poor behavior.

I’ve had parents tell me that if it wasn’t for my class, their student wouldn’t be alive today.

I have given the eulogy for a beloved student at her funeral.

I don’t really know how you put a price tag on that, or what I’m really worth on paper. I’ve never liked to ask for more money; that’s not how I was raised. I’ve never requested a raise at any job where I’ve worked. I certainly don’t have a good answer to the question of how much teachers should be paid. But what’s happening in Columbia is much, much more than just the issue of our salaries.

Our entire profession is under assault by a faction of politicians and ordinary citizens who believe we are some sinister, organized movement of socialist indoctrination (I still have yet to find the professional development sessions that teach this). “Loser teachers,” as our president’s son called us.

Furthermore, that faction pushes for more public money to be funneled into private education under the guise of this Orwellian term, “school choice.” It causes doe-eyed parents who haven’t properly researched this phenomenon to utter statements like, “But how is more choice bad?”

Because it isn’t choice, really. School voucher programs typically give opportunities to wealthy white families and faith-based initiatives. Minorities and special needs children are left in the dark. Again, I present Louisiana as evidence; “school choice” has crippled their education system, particularly for minorities.

And that’s the point. The true puppet masters in the school voucher movements want a return to faith-based, predominantly white education funded by public money. They want public education to die at the taxpayers’ expense.

And that’s why my colleagues are marching. Among a slew of other problems.

Teachers are leaving the profession at an alarming rate, and South Carolina truly feels the brunt of this problem.

Undoubtedly, some will call us spoiled or whiners after the march is over. Some may even call for those teachers who marched to lose their jobs. I even hesitated writing this piece because two months ago, I discovered someone on my Facebook friend list who believed we were all indoctrinating kids with socialism, and he had only kept me on his list so he could dig up dirt to use against me as a teacher.

That’s the kind of irrational hate we’re up against, ladies and gentlemen. It makes me hesitate to post any other opinions on the profession because I wonder who else is out there whom I can’t trust.

But everyone should push for strong, well-funded public education because the good of our society depends on it. A strong education system will pay tremendous dividends in the long run for all of America. Yet, irrational hate for the profession and the system pours out of politicians and talk show hosts and the average Joe who somehow thinks our jobs are easy because we have two months off in the summer.

Maybe Joe is right. Maybe having that summer makes our jobs cake. But if so, why are so many teachers fleeing to the private sector?

But for any folks who haven’t had the joy of teaching kids in the classroom (and I truly consider it a joy), let me sum up this diatribe in a little more succinct fashion: I don’t want to turn your kid into a socialist. I’m not trying to make your kid vote a certain way. I’m not trying to make your kid abandon the beliefs and values you have taught him or her at home.

I want to stop having to give your kid pointless standardized tests. I want your kid to feel safe when he or she comes to school. I don’t want your kid to feel worthless because he or she isn’t going to a four-year college. I want your kid to go home and not think about taking his or her life because now he or she has something to look forward to tomorrow. I want your kids to realize what they were put on this Earth to do, and I want them to feel like a bad ass because of it.

I want your kid to stand in line at the funeral home one day and say, “You know what? This old man made a difference in my life.”

I’ll be in the classroom Wednesday just like any other day. But my heart will be with my colleagues who march in Columbia, and I hope their courage will help lead us to change. South Carolina desperately needs it. How amazing it would be for us to be a national contender in a poll that truly matters—one that says our state legislature is actively working to make our society a better place. 

I hope my colleagues' wealth pours through the doors and out into the streets to push for change.

Again, I don’t know what dollar amount you can accurately attribute to my coworkers and me. I doubt any of us will ever get rich as teachers. I probably won’t die a wealthy man.

But I hope one day my former students have to show up early to the funeral home so they can avoid the long line. And I hope my wealth pours through the doors.