Dear future student,
When I was in preschool, I took my very first trip to Build-A-Bear. That might not be a thing for your generation, but for mine, it was the epitome of a carefree childhood. As the name might imply, Build-A-Bear was a world where eager youngsters like myself could build a stuffed animal, give it a name and decorate it to their heart’s content.
There was something so exhilarating about creating a creature of your very own, about giving it an identity and a story. Although I don’t remember too much about the occasion, I remember everything about my creation. She was a Dalmatian named Alex Blair (after my best friend), and she wore an extravagant princess gown complete with a crown and a wand. In her biography, I wrote that Alex Blair was “a fairy princess teacher who wanted to make all of her students’ dreams come true.”
Although years have passed since then, I can’t think of a statement that better encompasses an ideal and painless teaching situation. I sincerely wish that I could wave a magic wand to end all your heartache and fulfill your most silent hopes. Unfortunately, while I believe that teaching is a beautiful art form, it is certainly not magic. I don’t have any experience yet, but I imagine that it requires grueling strength and remarkable perseverance. Nonetheless, I want to assure you that I will do everything in my power to achieve my most important goal — to help you achieve yours.
I have always related strongly to young people and the incredible goals they possess. No matter your aspiration, I hope I can show you that your potential and efforts are meaningful. I know that I will struggle to give each of you the attention you deserve. If it were up to me, I would take each of you out to coffee for an in-depth interview about your deepest fears, your greatest joys and your wildest dreams. This is neither feasible nor legal, so I will do my best with the opportunities I’m given.
I’ll try to learn about the path you’re on and the goal you’re striving toward. Maybe your ambition is driving you toward a coveted seat in the Harvard University Class of 2035. If this is the case, then I will likely push you harder than you’d like to be pushed at times with faith that you will rise to the challenge. I will love you whether or not things work out in your favor. Sometimes, we just have to keep pushing.
Maybe your goal is simply to graduate high school and go on to college — a feat that has never before been achieved in your family. Again, I will push you, but I will also tell you that I believe in you and will do my best to show you your potential. I will also sob like a child when you walk across the stage. Maybe you’ve stayed after class to tell me that your goal is to recover the mental illness you’ve been struggling with for two years because the struggle to get out of bed in the morning is getting in the way of every other aspiration you could possibly have. When I’ve stopped crying, I will tell you that you’re absolutely beautiful and that I love you. I will tell you over and over again, no matter how tired you get of hearing it.
Regardless of who you are, where you come from or where you’re headed, I will aim to place your goals at the center of my work. This will give me strength when I’m awake at an ungodly hour trying to muster meaningful feedback on your essay — which happened to be the 119th in the stack of 120. It will give me patience when you ask me the same question for the eighth time in a row even though I gave you the same answer the first seven times. It will give me courage to challenge you and the way you think. I hope that I will teach you to integrate these qualities into your journey. Without them, you will spend the rest of your life waiting for a nonexistent fairy princess teacher to make all of your dreams come true.
You have the power to make it happen for yourself. I will give you every tool I have access to, but you are the one who chooses to take and use them. I believe with every fiber of my being that you have the capability to be great and do great things, but I am aware of the painful reality that sometimes circumstances will get in the way and inhibit your potential no matter how hard I try to fight against a system that is not currently doing you justice.
Therein lies what I believe to be the most profound heartbreak of teaching. When I was in seventh grade, my language arts teacher shared an excerpt from a William Butler Yeats poem, entitled “The Cloths of Heaven,” as part of a lesson focused on the process of goal setting. I still remember the way her voice quivered as she read the lines, “But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams underneath your feet. Tread softly, for you tread upon my dreams.” I listened intently as she explained the poem’s poignant connection to the teaching profession. I know I didn’t understand then, and I’m still not completely certain that I understand now.
And still, I remember being deeply moved by the passion my teacher exuded. Looking back, I think about all of my teachers who have made themselves completely vulnerable on behalf of their students. Looking forward, I fear the day that I know I will be compelled to do the same. I cannot yet imagine the extent to which my bare dreams will be trampled upon throughout my career. (Generally by systems rather than students, but that’s a different story altogether.) Regardless, I can promise that I will hold onto them no matter what — these dreams I have for you, for me and for the world we’re exploring together. I will spread them underneath your feet each day, if only to ensure that you have a safe place to walk.
It may not be much, but it’s the closest thing to magic fairy dust I’ll ever have.
Much love,
Your teacher
