This is the story
of a girl who loved unconventional tales.
Her interests lay not in storybooks,
nor in legends of princes and princesses;
her enjoyment stemmed from classics,
stories she connected with easily from an early age,
longingly adoring them before her peers.
That girl is me.
It is seldom often that a third-grader
will become vexed by fables whispered
quietly in the night
in an attempt to soothe her to sleep,
but I had not yet reached the age of nine before I
craved tales of higher importance.
These tales were an escape;
books became a haven from reality,
words wove the magic carpet that
delivered me to the safety
of my imagination.
I found solace in the arms of bound pages.
This was a wondrous discovery
…for a time.
With middle school came a negative
attribute to my adoration, the notice
of my peers. With their scorn,
books were no longer an escape,
but a burden. And so my books
collected dust for several years,
my Neverland abandoned.
However, high school arrived,
and I could not abstain from
them for such a vast length of time;
I tidied their covers, apologized to the
smudged words and torn pages,
returned to their familiar comfort with ease,
like slipping on a favorite dress
after a long hibernation.
I began to share the events of
my favorite stories from
Language Arts with those who did not
appreciate them as I did,
but in this practice I found my calling.
Teaching.
Teaching to those who care,
and those who do not.
Encouraging pupils to express themselves,
communicate, unlock windows and
doors in their minds
that existed previously,
unexplored.
Life cannot be measured in wealth,
but in the relationships we maintain,
the connections that we make.
This is how we progress, not through fortune,
but through expression,
through language. If these ideals can be
passed on to one student,
then my passion will have proved to be
worthwhile,
and a minute legacy will remain.