A Letter to a First Grade Teacher

I should tell you that I have something wrong with my body. It’s lethal and, I’m afraid,
terminal. You see, I have five hearts. I have five hearts with different names and they are
all on the outside of my skin – exposed and vulnerable.

No one told me about this strange biology. I never learned that not only do a sperm and
egg explode and coalesce and make a baby, but that they form this outer heart as well.
An outer heart that aches and throbs and thrills more than my original one. While my
original heart sustains me, my outer heart defines me.

For nine months, six and a half-hours a day, you have had my heart in your hands.

Thank you for your care. The heart beats strong and vibrant. It’s grown through work,
nurturing and love. You’ve respected its vulnerability and protected it. I thank God my
heart was in the hands of a teacher like you.

You’ve allowed me to be a doting parent. Thanks for taking the time to talk
spontaneously, at meetings, and even at night on the phone. I know you didn’t have the
time for this, but you made time anyway.

While you were always responsive to me, what I have the most gratitude for is your
sensitivity to our son. I’ve always felt that you knew him. Thus I think that we have
augmented each other – you in our parenting and us in your teaching – and always with
his well-being the prime motivator for both.

As I look back on my own education, certain teachers stand out – teachers that made an
impact, who were almost epiphanous for me in my growth as a student and person. I’m
sure our son will look back on you as being one of this elite group.

We put an undue burden on teachers. You probably once thought that being an El. Ed.
Major with a little experience was enough. But this society wants more. Teachers must
be psychologists, police officers, entertainers, sociologists, etc. You must be creative,
well humored, and a jack of all trades. We require such impossible things as disciplining
without punishment, comforting without contact, learning without teaching, moralism
without judgments, sensitivity to individuals without showing favoritism, and so on ad
infinitum. We will praise our child’s success as theirs and condemn their failures as
yours.

And yes, you are to keep the schools, sex, and the neighborhoods safe. But you must
never forget the three Rs.
In short, our society expects teachers to save the youth from the cesspool of our culture
by means of a million mixed messages and contradictory agendas. To be sure, we will
blame you when our culture’s edifice becomes nothing more than a gaping orifice.

And for that we will pay you a pittance.

All I know is this; you have taught my son to begin to read and write and that’s
miraculous enough – even if the extent of this is his putting a “Keep Out” sign on his
bedroom door. What a mind boggling alchemy – to take 26 scribbles, form them into
characters, mix them into words, and transform them into the whole history of human
thought.

You’ve thrown these scribbles into a hat and out will pop Plato, the Bible, and
Shakespeare. You are the portal through which the future scientists, leaders, poets, and
philosophers will peer. You’ve taught six and seven year olds to read and write. You’ve
given them the world from a few marks on paper. Abracadabra.

As far as we know, Socrates, Buddha, and Jesus never wrote anything. Of course, their
followers did and we wouldn’t know much about them without reading. So not only the
world, you’ve opened the realm of the Ideal for these kids.

You’ve given them the arsenal of words, what more could we ask for? Give them words,
let the rest of us be responsible for what these words become – either “Mein Kampf” and
Jackie Collins or “A Letter from a Birmingham Jail” and Dostoevsky.

But you’ve done more than just teach, haven’t you…?

My first grade teacher used to hug and give slobbery kisses (I always tried to escape this).
She’d probably be fired for that sort of thing today. But, thank goodness, you have been
even more invasive. For you have performed open-heart massage – caressing the
pounding – thrilling a child to the ever-expanding universe.

There are times, however, when words are not enough. Like now. For mere words
cannot convey our deep thanks and appreciation and gratitude.