By walking right in from the door outside,
He was happy. And the school did not seem
Quite so big any more.
One morning,
When the little boy had been in school a while,
The teacher said:
“Today we are going to make a picture.”
“Good!” thought the little boy.
He liked to make pictures.
He could make all kinds:
Lions and tigers,
Chickens and cows,
Trains and boats —
And he took out his box of crayons
And began to draw.
But the teacher said:
“Wait! It is not time to begin!”
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
“Now,” said the teacher,
“We are going to make flowers.”
“Good!” thought the little boy,
He liked to make flowers,
And he began to make beautiful ones
With his pink and orange and blue crayons.
But the teacher said,
“Wait! And I will show you how.”
And she drew a flower on the blackboard.
It was red, with a green stem.
“There,” said the teacher.
“Now you may begin.”
The little boy looked at the teacher’s flower.
Then he looked at his own flower,
He liked his flower better than the teacher’s.
But he did not say this,
He just turned his paper over
And made a flower like the teacher’s.
It was red, with a green stem.
On another day,
When the little boy had opened
The door from the outside all by himself,
The teacher said,
“Today we are going to make something with clay.”
“Good!” thought the little boy.
He liked clay.
He could make all kinds of things with clay:
Snakes and snowmen,
Elephants and mice,
Cars and trucks —
And he began to pull and pinch
His ball of clay.
But the teacher said,
“Wait! It is not time to begin!”
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
“Now,” said the teacher,
“We are going to make a dish.”
“Good!” thought the little boy,
He liked to make dishes,
And he began to make some
That were all shapes and sizes.
But the teacher said,
“Wait! And I will show you how.”
And she showed everyone how to make
One deep dish.
“There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”
The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish
Then he looked at his own.
He liked his dishes better than the teacher’s
But he did not say this,
He just rolled his clay into a big ball again,
And made a dish like the teacher’s.
It was a deep dish.
And pretty soon
The little boy learned to wait
And to watch,
And to make things just like the teacher.
And pretty soon
He didn’t make things of his own anymore.
Then it happened
That the little boy and his family
Moved to another house,
In another city,
And the little boy
Had to go to another school.
This school was even bigger
Than the other one,
And there was no door from the outside
Into his room.
He had to go up some big steps,
And walk down a long hall
To get to his room.
And the very first day
He was there, the teacher said,
“Today we are going to make a picture.”
“Good!” thought the little boy,
And he waited for the teacher
To tell him what to do
But the teacher didn’t say anything.
She just walked around the room.
When she came to the little boy,
She said, “Don’t you want to make a picture?”
“Yes,” said the little boy.
“What are we going to make?”
“I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher.
“How shall I make it?” asked the little boy.
“Why, any way you like,” said the teacher.
“And any color?” asked the little boy.
“Any color,” said the teacher,
“If everyone made the same picture,
And used the same colors,
How would I know who made what,
And which was which?”
“I don’t know,” said the little boy.
And he began to make pink and orange
and blue flowers.
He liked his new school,
Even if it didn’t have a door
Right in from the outside!
~Helen E. Buckley
I Am a Teacher
Appreciation is a wonderful thing.
It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.
~Voltaire
I am a Teacher.
I was born the first moment that a question leaped from the mouth of a child.
I have been many people in many places.
I am Socrates exciting the youth of Athens to discover new ideas through the use of questions.
I am Anne Sullivan tapping out the secrets of the universe into the outstretched hand of Helen Keller.
I am Aesop and Hans Christian Andersen revealing truth through countless stories.
I am Marva Collins fighting for every child’s right to an education.
I am Mary McCleod Bethune building a great college for my people, using orange crates for desks.
And I am Bel Kaufman struggling to go Up the Down Staircase.
The names of those who have practiced my profession ring like a hall of fame for humanity... Booker T. Washington, Buddha, Confucius, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Leo Buscaglia, Moses and Jesus.
I am also those whose names and faces have long been forgotten but whose lessons and character will always be remembered in the accomplishments of their students.
I have wept for joy at the weddings of former students, laughed with glee at the birth of their children and stood with head bowed in grief and confusion by graves dug too soon for bodies far too young.
Throughout the course of a day I have been called upon to be an actor, friend, nurse and doctor, coach, finder of lost articles, money lender, taxi driver, psychologist, substitute parent, salesman, politician and a keeper of the faith.
Despite the maps, charts, formulas, verbs, stories and books, I have really had nothing to teach, for my students really have only themselves to learn, and I know it takes the whole world to tell you who you are.
I am a paradox. I speak loudest when I listen the most. My greatest gifts are in what I am willing to appreciatively receive from my students.
Material wealth is not one of my goals, but I am a full-time treasure seeker in my quest for new opportunities for my students to use their talents and in my constant search for those talents that sometimes lie buried in self-defeat.
I am the most fortunate of all who labor.
A doctor is allowed to usher life into the world in one magic moment.
I am allowed to see that life is reborn each day with new questions, ideas and friendships.
An architect knows that if he builds with care, his structure may stand for centuries. A teacher knows that if he builds with love and truth, what he builds will last forever.
I am a warrior, daily doing battle against peer pressure, negativity, fear, conf
ormity, prejudice, ignorance and apathy. But I have great allies: Intelligence, Curiosity, Parental Support, Individuality, Creativity, Faith, Love and Laughter all rush to my banner with indomitable support.
And who do I have to thank for this wonderful life I am so fortunate to experience, but you the public, the parents. For you have done me the great honor to entrust to me your greatest contribution to eternity, your children.
And so I have a past that is rich in memories. I have a present that is challenging, adventurous and fun because I am allowed to spend my days with the future.
I am a teacher ... and I thank God for it every day
~John W. Schlatter
Live Your Dream
People who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are doing it.
~George Bernard Shaw
My Own Destiny
There is an unseen life that dreams us.
It knows our true direction and destiny. We can trust ourselves more than we realize and we need have no fear of change.
~John O’Donohue
I was a 22-year-old hotshot — or so I thought. As a publicist for NBC News in New York — the youngest ever, I was told — I was making enough money to rent a nice apartment near Lincoln Center, enjoy manicures and pedicures on weekends, eat out and shop. Not bad for a nice Jewish girl from Miami Beach who had always dreamed of making it in the Big Apple.
I was on a first-name basis with some of the biggest names in broadcast news: Jane Pauley, Maria Shriver and the late Tim Russert. At some point those boldface names benefited from my publicity skills. It was heady stuff and I was on a roll. I envisioned a long and happy career at NBC’s iconic 30 Rock headquarters.
Then NBC News hired a new division president. He planned to make big changes, or so I learned abruptly one day when I got a call from a human resources representative who told me to report to the new boss’s office. When I walked in, he was sitting behind his big desk. He didn’t get up to greet me. Not a good sign.
He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his leather chair and told me that anytime someone took over a company or a division, he or she would want to put his or her mark on things — new protocols, new processes, and a new team.
The light dawned. “Are you firing me?” I interrupted.
“You have 30 minutes to leave the building,” he said, matter-of-factly.
My world was crashing, so I quickly went into spin mode, using all the skills I had learned as a high school debate champ. I told him he was making a terrible mistake, and I listed the reasons. I told him that if he talked to anyone internally and externally they would say what a great asset I was, that I really knew my stuff, and that I was one thousand percent committed to NBC News.
He looked at his watch.
Desperate, I asked him to give me a chance to prove myself. “Give me three things to accomplish in three weeks, three months — any timeframe you decide — to prove myself directly to you.” All I wanted, I said, was to stay at NBC News.
His response? “You now have 25 minutes to leave the building.” Game over. As I stood up to walk out of his office — trying desperately not to burst into tears — his parting words of wisdom were, “Tory, it’s a big world out there, and I suggest you go explore it.”
I left in shock. My world as I had known it had come to an end. I thought my career was over. I didn’t even get to pack up my office. It was done for me and my boxes were messengered to my apartment later that day.
I walked home, climbed into my pajamas and threw myself an old-fashioned pity party, catered by Haagen-Dazs. The entertainment? Daytime TV, long conversations with my mom in Florida, and lots of sleepless nights filled with self-doubt, wondering what would become of me. My party turned into a misery marathon for months, financed by severance pay, unemployment benefits and a cashed-out 401(k) — something only someone naïve in her twenties would think was a great idea.
With a cool $23,000 in my checking account, going to the ATM never felt scary. That is, until one day I stood at a Citibank machine, stunned that I had run out of money. I’m not sure why a smart girl like me was so surprised: when nothing’s coming in and it’s all going out, it’s inevitable that the funds dry up.
I realized I had two choices: pack my bags and move back home to Miami Beach or snap out of my funk and get another job.
Having no desire to go backwards, I took stock of my situation. First, I told myself: nothing lasts forever. All jobs are temporary and nobody holds onto the same role forever. Second, sometimes you can do everything right and still lose your job. And third, you can take away my business cards, my corporate ID and my paycheck, but nobody can strip me of my skills or experience, or my friends and colleagues who’d vouch for me and my talent. Once I discovered that — and truly believed it — it took me just weeks to get hired.
As I began my new job, I reflected on other key lessons, which most notably was that I control my self-worth — and it’s up to me to project what I want others to see. It’s not about job title or place of employment. It’s about me and all that I’m capable of doing, giving and achieving.
I also realized that I never wanted to be on someone else’s payroll — to leave my destiny in someone else’s hands. I resented the notion that, despite all my hard work and commitment, an arrogant man in a suit could take away my paycheck and attempt to rob me of my dignity and self-worth. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t stomach the specter of getting fired again.
The permanent scar of a pink slip convinced me that I’d feel best running my own shop and signing my own paycheck. I’d bank exclusively on me. Everything would be up to me. That concept is terrifying for many people, but I found it exhilarating. I still do. It was the most freeing personal move I could have made. Ask anyone who has quit corporate America to go out on their own and many will say the same thing.
~Tory Johnson
I Think I Can!
Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.
~Henry Ford
Rocky Lyons, the son of New York Jets defensive end Marty Lyons, was five years old when he was driving through rural Alabama with his mother, Kelly. He was asleep on the front seat of their pickup truck, with his feet resting on her lap.
As his mom drove carefully down the winding two-lane country road, she turned onto a narrow bridge. As she did, the truck hit a pothole and slid off the road, and the right front wheel got stuck in a rut. Fearing the truck would tip over, she attempted to jerk it back up onto the road by pressing hard on the gas pedal and spinning the steering wheel to the left. But Rocky’s foot got caught between her leg and the steering wheel and she lost control of the pickup truck.
The truck flipped over and over down a 20-foot ravine. When it hit bottom, Rocky woke up. “What happened, Mama?” he asked. “Our wheels are pointing toward the sky.”
Kelly was blinded by blood. The gearshift had jammed into her face, ripping it open from lip to forehead. Her gums were torn out, her cheeks pulverized, her shoulders crushed. With one shattered bone sticking out of her armpit, she was pinned against the crushed door.
“I’ll get you out, Mama,” announced Rocky, who had miraculously escaped injury. He slithered out from under Kelly, slid through the open window and tried to yank his mother out. But she didn’t move.
“Just let me sleep,” begged Kelly, who was drifting in and out of consciousness.
“No, Mama,” Rocky insisted. “You can’t go to sleep.”
Rocky wriggled back into the truck and managed to push Kelly out of the wreckage. He then told her he’d climb up to the road and stop a car to get help. Fearing that no one would be able to see her little boy in the dark, Kelly refused to let him go alone. Instead they slowly crept up the embankment, with Rocky using his meager 40-pound frame to push his 104-pound mother. They crawled inches at a time. The pain was so great that Kelly wanted to give up, but Rocky wouldn’t let her.
To urge his mother o
n, Rocky told her to think “about that little train,” the one in the classic children’s story, The Little Engine That Could, which managed to get up a steep mountain. To remind her, Rocky kept repeating his version of the story’s inspirational phrase: “I know you can, I know you can.”
When they finally reached the road, Rocky was able to see his mother’s torn face clearly for the first time. He broke into tears. Waving his arms and pleading, “Stop! Please stop!” the boy hailed a truck. “Get my mama to a hospital,” he implored the driver.
It took 8 hours and 344 stitches to rebuild Kelly’s face. She looks quite different today — “I used to have a straight long nose, thin lips and high cheekbones; now I’ve got a pug nose, flat cheeks and much bigger lips” — but she has few visible scars and has recovered from her injuries.
Rocky’s heroics were big news. But the spunky youngster insists he didn’t do anything extraordinary. “It’s not like I wanted it to happen,” he explains. “I just did what anyone would have done.”
Says his mother, “If it weren’t for Rocky, I’d have bled to death.”
~First heard from Michele Borba
Rest in Peace: The “I Can’t” Funeral
Optimism is the foundation of courage.
~Nicholas Murray Butler
Donna’s fourth-grade classroom looked like many others I had seen in the past. Students sat in five rows of six desks. The teacher’s desk was in the front and faced the students. The bulletin board featured student work. In most respects it appeared to be a traditional elementary classroom. Yet something seemed different that day I entered it for the first time. There seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement.
Donna was a veteran small-town Michigan schoolteacher only two years away from retirement. In addition she was a volunteer participant in a county-wide staff development project I had organized and facilitated. The training focused on language arts ideas that would empower students to feel good about themselves and take charge of their lives. Donna’s job was to attend training sessions and implement the concepts being presented. My job was to make classroom visitations and encourage implementation.
I took an empty seat in the back of the room and watched. All
the students were working on a task, filling a sheet of notebook paper with thoughts and ideas. The 10-year-old student closest to me was filling her page with “I Can’ts.”
Chicken Soup for the Soul: All Your Favorite Original Stories Page 14
