Those poor, misunderstood teachers,
Counting down days till retirement.
Like grunts in The Nam,
Waiting for a reprieve like it was a
Papal dispensation or a Presidential pardon, or
Last minute stay of execution from the Governor.
Teachers: dying a slow death
On the same lame stage day after day,
Performing amateur comedy,
Hosting their very own Karaoke Club;
Filling barely enough seats in the joint
To crack their daily job satisfaction nut.
The kids who do show up for class are too bored,
Or too apathetic to stay awake,
Heckle you or walk out.
Most teachers hate their jobs.
So many teachers, so many miserable mooks
Wishing they had some other job, any other job,
Like plumber or astronaut,
Mortgage broker or CIA assassin,
The last two with similar personality & career profiles
On The Myers Briggs Type Indicator MBTI® Step I Interpretive Report. Anything’s got to be better than being
Trapped in a 40 by 40 foot box all day,
Stuck in some Dungeons & Dragons classroom
All day with 40 chaotic, evil, teenage
Gary Gygax-ed kids, used to entertainment
Of higher quality and sparkle.
The cardinal sin of teaching:  Thou shalt not be boring!

Teachers complain constantly about how bad the money is,
Having to work almost 185 days a year,
Whining about only getting 8 weeks off in the summer &
Every freaking holiday on earth known to man.
Snap out of it: you get paid what may be one of
The last livable, middle class salaries in America,
Not to mention health and defined retirement benefits, &
You’re still kvetching.
Meanwhile, Good Teachers—
Those deliriously happy few,
That small rare band of subversives,
Maybe you can count them on one hand &
Still feel lucky you had that many—
I’m talking about the good teachers,
Who view teaching as an art form,
Atypical teachers with both brains and heart.
These are the teachers that make the difference.
These are the vital early role models we need
To encounter when we first leave home as toddlers.

I can still hear you, Mr. Feeny:
“I want you to go home this afternoon and open a book! I don’t care what you had otherwise planned, I order you, nay, I command you. Go home and open a book.”
Books are sine qua non.
Good teachers start out by reading a lot of books—
That’s the brain stuff.
It is life lessons of the heart, however,
That really counts,
Stuff they’ve learned the hard way,
The pain they’ve felt personally,
Particularly while young themselves.
That’s where the heart comes from.
And for **** sure they never read about it
In whatever passes for textbooks in
Most graduate schools of education,
Largely lame crap masquerading as academic rigor
In the diploma mills serving the education profession these days.
I taught in 15 high schools across the American southwest &
I’ve known some really breathtakingly dumb,
Essentially illiterate teachers.
Even at the highest institutions of higher learning,
The average educator of teachers is
Rarely known for intellectualism.
With the possible exception of Diane Ravitch,
Jonathan Kozol, Paulo “The Brazilian” Freire--&
Maybe that Marxist hold-out, Eric “Rico” Gutstein--
Instructional staff at most university
Graduate Schools of Education are not
Taken seriously by the rest of the academic faculty.
What was your source of heart, Mr.Kotter?
I can assure you, it was not something you
Picked up at a teacher in-service, Gabe, &
Welcome back, by the way.

If you remember one thing about
Teacher licensing, remember this:
Albert Einstein, at the height of his fame &
Intellectual prowess, could not walk in
Off the street from out-of-state, or
Anywhere else in the universe, &
Qualify for a secondary single subject
Preliminary license to teach physics.
Not in any public high school classroom in
California or in the state of New Mexico.
He simply lacked the requisite education,
Hadn’t taken the plenitude of pedagogic courses,
Expensive college credits in such vital subjects as:
Methods of Teaching Science for Dummies;
Educational Technology for Idiots;
Band Aids & First Aid;
Tae Kwan Do for the Inner City;
Teaching & Testing the Test Takers;
Touchy-Feely 101, 201 & 301;
Understanding Special Kids:
Gifted Kids, Not-so Gifted Kids,
Kids with Attitude & Kids with ADD;
Curriculum Simulacrum;
ELL/Cross-Cultural Learning;
Self-Esteem for the Worthless; &
Last but not least, Foundations of Education:
Sarcasm & Humiliation for Fun & Profit.
And I didn’t even mention taking & passing
That sublimely subtle CBEST or NMTA/NES,
Teacher licensure tests,
Essentially 8th Grade literacy exams
Quite a few applicants take 3 or 4 times
Before earning a passing score.

Blame society?
Blame the parents?
Blame the politicians?
No, teachers:
Blame yourselves.

We sat across from each other in a dimly lit restaurant and I wished I hadn’t chose the seat with a clock in plain sight. I shredded a napkin between my fingers while fishing for words without bait. As he wiped condensation from his glass, I pushed the bits of paper into my hand and piled them in the corner of the table. During the time spent "perfecting" that pile, I pondered deeming the act a delicacy. As farfetched as that sounds, I couldn’t really help it. I dreaded the moment when our eyes would meet again, paired with our own versions of “let’s pretend this isn’t horrible” smiles. No teeth, of course.

I wasn’t nervous about this evening or this man; in fact, my feelings about him were quite certain. He is decent looking, well-spoken, and kind. Despite my initial reaching for the doorknob, he insisted that I enter the restaurant first. Those who know me know I am adamant about holding the door for others, fueled equal parts by principle and politeness, but after a few seconds of lighthearted bargaining, I sensed that he just wasn’t getting that. I reluctantly surrendered with a mannerly grin as he swung the door open. I was not bothered by the fact that he didn’t get it, but more that it didn’t seem worth trying to convince him otherwise.

After we were seated, he mentioned how cold October has been, and how “cool” the leaves look, and carefully spilled a few other cordialities on the table. I cleaned them mostly with agreement, but nothing more. He laughed when I told him I like to read the works of Jonathan Kozol “for fun,” and again when he saw the USA Today in my purse (realizing that I wasn’t kidding when I said I like to read that too). I wasn’t offended. Aside from being used to that sort of response, his laugh was not one of ridicule, but more a laugh of disbelief. A laugh that replaces silence while one reasons with the unfamiliar. Perhaps I would have been offended if he let me hold the door, or if he wanted to know why that mattered so much, but he didn’t, and from that I knew where this was going before it even started moving.

I wasn’t nervous about this evening or this man, but rather, finding the man I wish he was during an evening of which I dream. I wondered how many more napkins I would tear and niceties I would exchange before meeting someone passionate and riveting and curious. Someone who thinks the autumn leaves are “breathtaking,” and laughs at my USA Today because he reads the New York Times. Someone who is just as obstinate about holding doors, but is never annoyed when I say "after you," because he knows I have a point to prove, too. I won't have to explain it, although he will ask me to anyway, just so we can bicker through our smiles at the dinner table. And when he tells me I am "too stubborn," it will be implied that he appreciates my stubbornness most of all. Someone who just appreciates me. I was nervous that man might never -

“Hi guys, are you ready to order?”