REAL FAMILIES: Meditations on family life

Teachers infiltrate my life. I work with them, I relate to the ones that have taught (and continue to teach) my children, I see budding educators at my school. Many of my own teachers have been wonderful and have opened new worlds to me. For instance, there is the fourth-grade teacher who insisted we memorize the works of African American poets. I carry those poems in my heart to this day. Even the not-so-wonderful teachers have made a mark on me. The start of a new school year thrills me with the anticipation of new beginnings, fresh pages in the notebook, sharp points on the pencil.

I am a student. My first teacher was my mom. As my parent, Mom taught me many things—how to say please and thank you, how to tie my shoes, how to be honest (this lesson involved a march back to the store and an apology for appropriating a roll of Necco Wafers). But Mom also spent most of her working life as an early childhood educator, and my preschool years with her came during the time she was growing into her identity as a teacher. Mom has an affinity and love for small children and infinite patience with the intensive, hands-on care that kind of work requires. After taking care of children (her own and others) in her home, she began working at day-care centers. For many years she worked right at our church.

Mom was also passionate about shaping nurturing spaces for children everywhere, not just at school. Because she wanted to study the effects of environment on children’s development, Mom went back to school for her master’s degree when I was in junior high. I only know this because she has reported it to me—my own adolescent self-centeredness apparently has blocked any memory of Mom being a student while we kids were all still at home. After finishing her degree she moved into administrative positions and was involved in community youth theater, local politics and writing groups. In the midst of all of this, she made a home for us. I think I love school—both sides of the desk—because of my mother. She didn’t make it look effortless, but she made it look vital and necessary. She made me recognize the importance of being involved in one’s world and doing service as a matter of course. Because of my mother, I am a teacher.

And now I am thrilled to welcome a new teacher in my life. Not long ago I got a call from my son, who had just finished teaching his first full lesson to a class of high school seniors. This is a miracle of sorts, in my view, as this is the son I was prepared to see drop out of high school. His adolescence was hard on our entire family, and I found myself sitting across the desk from the principal more times than I care to remember. Fortunately the principal, although as frustrated by my son’s behavior as I was, did not give up on him. At the end of each of our meetings, he assured me he knew my son was a good kid, a smart kid, and that he would come around. Our church family, too, was a wonderful support.

It was a hard time, but we came through it, my son graduated and later that summer announced he wanted to go to college. An open enrollment policy at a nearby state university let him enter that fall. Eventually, after doing some remedial work and getting up to speed, he decided on an education major. He already knows he wants to work with students who are labeled “at risk.”

The day he called me, he was minutes out of the classroom after teaching the first full lesson on his own. “I loved it,” he declared. I love that he loved it, and I am excited for his future students.

I want to remember always to be grateful for the teachers in my life, for teachers everywhere. My mother taught me well (even when she thought I wasn’t listening). My son teaches me. I believe many teachers do what they do because they themselves had good teachers; I know this is true for me. I can’t wait to see what will happen next.

Regina Shands Stoltzfus is working on a doctorate in theology and ethics at Chicago Theological Seminary.