What Do You Make?

I still find it amusing to hear people's reactions when I tell them I am a high school teacher: "Oh, my god" or "I could never do that." Once in a while though, I get "Be honest, what do you make?" I am not totally sure why people find it more appropriate to ask a teacher what they make as opposed to someone else. Have you ever met a dentist and wanted to know what they make? My guess is no (or at least if you did you didn't say it out loud) but for some reason - some - people think it is completely appropriate to ask me how much I make; its as if people automatically envision movie scenes from Dangerous Minds or To Sir with Love - as if I'm in a room with 40 students, with bars on the windows, and two textbooks with half the pages ripped out being duct-taped to a chair. All this I find laughable given the school I do work at: I have a huge sunlit classroom, a brand new computer, an InFocus projector mounted on my ceiling, countless supplies and books, and some of the nicest people I know (my coworkers and my students).

When I get this question - which I did this weekend - I smile graciously, but in my mind I think of a poem by Taylor Mali entitled "What Teachers Make." Mali is an English teacher and performance poet. You can easily YouTube him perfoming this poem. I get emotional every time I see it - in a good way. I'm not posting it here because there is a certain hand gesture at the end I don't think is appropriate for my blog. Here is the written form - the image he creates at the beginning is a dinner party he was at and someone asking him the fatal question...

"What Teachers Make"

He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you're a teacher, Taylor," he says. "Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy about honesty:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a difference! What about you?