I Wanted To Be a Teacher.
With Paul working just down the street in a hospital laboratory, I stayed committed to my secretarial job at The Carnegie Museum of Natural History. I stepped up whenever I could do something more than answer phones and type letters, and I felt good about my contribution.
So when the Education Department needed someone to teach a class about bears to preschoolers on a Saturday morning, I jumped at the chance. My hangover days were behind me, and I was actually excited to get up on a weekend and go into work to teach “Teddy Bears and Me” to three- and four-year-olds.
Children brought their favorite teddy bears, and I showed them pictures of different bears. We played games, we danced, and we had a grand finale parade of teddy bears roaring through the classroom.
I don’t know if the preschoolers enjoyed the class, but I had the time of my life. While I was exhausted after an hour of corralling small children, I felt productive. I felt happy – joyous even – after doing work on a weekend.
And I believed, for the first time in my life, that I’d found my calling. I’d never had more fun doing a job, or felt better about myself after doing a job, than I did after teaching those preschoolers about bears.
I wanted to be a teacher.
I was allowed to teach two more classes at The Carnegie before I made up my mind for sure.
Then, in September of 1990, I quit my truly wonderful job at The Carnegie. With the support of my boss and colleagues, who gave me a fond farewell, I enrolled into Chatham College’s 18-month post-graduate program. If I completed the program, I would have a Pennsylvania teaching certification in early childhood education.
I could hardly wait. I’d spent my entire childhood “teaching” my sisters through Fisher Price toys. I remember making worksheets and educational games for my (poor) sisters to complete when they were in my “class.”
There was nothing more fun for me than teaching. I just hadn’t realized it for the previous ten years.
I remembered standing on a beach in my biker boots and skull rings, soaking in the sun. A little girl, just rollicking in the sand, looked at me – and I smiled. Then she ran, terrified and crying, back to her family. She saw only the drunkard, hardened by alcohol and self-induced trauma.
For a moment, I’d been in touch with my own soul – but when she ran, I vanished as well.
After years of being a drunk and swearing that I didn’t want anything to do with children, I had a year sober – and I’d become myself again. I’d turned my life around to such a degree that not only did I love children the way I had when I was younger, I wanted to spend my entire life with them.
The Chatham College program was going to cost me some money and time, but it would be worth it. I’d take tons of education classes, and I’d be student teaching in only a year.
My parents supported me. Paul supported me. Even The Carnegie supported me, though I’d gone to rehab after six months, then left the job entirely after less than two years.
I still think of that job as the one that saved my life.