What I've learned...

When I was in high school, if a teacher asked me what I’d learned I would most likely reply with what I thought she wanted to hear.  Deep down, I’m a people pleaser; therefore, how I feel about things is often complicated by how other people feel about things. 

When I was in high school, the things that were important to me were…things.  I remember going to three different department stores to buy my first pair of Jordache jeans; the ones with the big horse’s head on the butt (I had to have THOSE jeans because that’s what all my friends were wearing).  When asked out on a date, the first thing I wanted to know about a guy was the kind of car he was driving.  Christmas and birthdays were characterized by the size and cost of the presents I received.

Back then, I thought I knew what it meant to be responsible, unselfish, and loyal.  I turned in my homework on time, I did what my parents wanted me to…often without being asked, and when my best friend’s boyfriend made a pass at me I told her immediately and we laughed and cried about it over the phone for hours one night while my parents slept across the hall.

I took pride in my accomplishments; I made high honor roll every semester of my high school tenure and I graduated in the top 10 percent of my class. I felt like I deserved the accolades I received.  After all, I studied hard and I turned in quality work.  I didn’t drink, smoke, or stay out past my curfew.

When I was in high school, I thought I knew a lot.

When I got to college, it was not what I expected.  I earned my first “D” EVER on a paper I wrote for my Children’s Literature professor and I was so embarrassed I sobbed as I told my mother about it over the phone.  Everyone was “smart” like me; many knew more than me.  The first time I sat in the auditorium at Forbes Quad with 200 other students, I thought I was going to vomit.  I didn’t, than k God, but I did struggle to stay awake, remain focused, and take effective notes—things that in high school came easily to me.

Before long, six years had passed.  My first teaching job was in Prince George’s County, Maryland.  I was living on my own in a “posh” apartment complex, making my own money, and planning my own wedding.  I was also crying myself to sleep nearly every night.  The kids hated me, the principal hated me, and I hated me…I couldn’t’ understand how something that I wanted so desperately—something I wanted since I was a little girl—could have eluded me so completely.

I wondered if I knew anything at all.

Fast forward twelve years.  I live in a serene suburbia just a few miles away from everything important.  My kids play in the street with neighbors, roast marshmallows in our backyard, and watch firecrackers from our deck on the fourth of July.  I love our neighborhood.  But like high school, I find that things are important here.  When parents congregate on the street while our children play, our conversation revolves around who has a  pool and who’s getting one, who went on vacation and where, and which parts of our houses we plan to “fix-up” next.  I realize that our manicured lawns have replaced the Jordache jeans of our youth and the conversation has shifted from what car our boyfriends drive to what car we drive; however, the focus remains the same. 

I realize, too that my real accomplishments  lie in the smiles of my children; in the way they share with each other, in the way they comfort each other, and in the way they love one another.  Being responsible for me now is making sure I’ve scheduled all of their after-school activities and left enough time for dinner and homework.  Unselfish is letting them choose the first piece of pizza and the movie that we watch together at night.  And loyalty is spending time with my family instead of my friends on a Friday after work. 

I’m still a teacher and I love my job.  Not because of how it makes me feel, but because of the difference I know I make in how others feel.  Ironically, success came for me through the mistakes I made.  If I had an easy time of it my first year of teaching, I wouldn’t be the support to the young teachers I mentor today.  My failure was painful, but necessary.

What I know now is that things don’t make you happy.  True happiness comes from within.  You have to find it; it’s not something you earn…no matter how good you are.  Someday when it’s all over, no one’s going to stand next to your hospital bed or kneel at your casket and talk about what a beautiful marble floor you had in your foyer.  Nor will they remember if you ever wore Jordache jeans with the horse on the butt.  They’ll remember your actions, though.  Your deeds.  Your words. And your spirit.  Those are the things that are truly important. 

That’s what I’ve learned.