Why I Teach

“I wanted to tell you something,” the student said. “I’ve been in prison, and ...” I held up my hand for him to stop and then replied, “I don’t want to know why you’ve been there.

I used to be a bad girl. I was self-destructive, angry and fearless. These traits, coupled with a decent amount of intelligence, took me to all the places bad girls go.

The boy approaches the microphone with a dignified stride. He nods to the cellist seated at center stage and then turns to address the audience that fills the art deco theater.

In the third grade, near the end of World War II, I learned why I wanted to be a teacher.

Halloween is my favorite holiday. When I taught English to immigrant children in Pacoima, California, October was the month for masks and skeletons to teach the parts of the body.

File(s): 

Monsters, Devils and Mary Poppins (PDF)

I never wanted to be a teacher. I hated teachers. Growing up, I told myself I would be a movie star, a famous writer and a media mogul in the tradition of Ted Turner.

"I'm too poor and too black."

As she spoke, we sat, her classmates and I, with lumps in our throats and salt stinging-eyes: