Reflections on Teaching:
A Journey of Challenges, Passion, and Purpose
After the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, I found myself deeply questioning my career: Is teaching really the path I want to follow for the rest of my life? The role of a teacher has shifted so much from what I remember as a child, waiting for my father to come home from his job as a high school teacher. My little brother and I would eagerly cling to his legs, wrapping our arms around them as he pretended to struggle, saying, “Oh, my feet are so heavy—I can barely walk!” It was the same cherished game every evening, a moment of joy and connection that never grew old.
Dinner was our family’s chance to unwind and share the ups and downs of our day. My dad, with my mom and three brothers around a table almost too small for six, we would dish out the highlights of our day.. Back then, I had my heart set on becoming an artist. I was totally convinced that was my calling.
Growing up, I thought we were rich. We had a pool, and our backyard was the neighborhood go-to spot for play. Only years later did I realize the pool wasn’t a luxury; it was my father’s solution to provide a vacation-like experience for us, as we couldn’t afford trips. The reality was that we shared clothes, shared bedrooms, and drove an old Rambler so worn down that I could see the road through the floorboards. Yet I felt wealthy because of the love and creativity my parents poured into our lives.
My father worked tirelessly. When he wasn’t teaching high school, he was earning his master’s degree, teaching college classes, or finding ways to improve our lives. My mother, though she had given up her own dream of becoming a teacher to support her family, was the ultimate educator in our home—teaching us life lessons, nurturing our curiosity, and inspiring us with her sacrifices.
My father’s dedication to teaching influenced me more than I realized. Despite the long hours and constant battles with administration, he loved his work. But as a teenager, I couldn’t see that. I rejected his advice to attend Mount Holyoke College and instead pursued my dream at MASS ART, majoring in Film and Art Education—though I eventually dropped the latter, much to my father’s dismay. That decision came with consequences, and I had to navigate life’s challenges on my own, working full-time and living in Boston’s South End during a turbulent era.
After graduating, I took a job with MTV, working on special effects for a show hosted by RuPaul Called BUZZ. The glamour I expected was nothing more than long hours and lo pay; it was grueling, and life in New York City was unsustainable. A year later, I returned to Boston, burned out but determined to find my path.
It was then I stumbled upon an opportunity to paint a mural at a small private school in Jamaica Plain. The school, a haven for high-risk students, was unlike anything I had imagined. Despite its challenges—the metal detectors, grates on classroom doors, and students who were often in crisis—it had an undeniable sense of calm and community. I was captivated, not by the mural but by the kids. When they asked me to stay on as their art teacher, I couldn’t say no.
The school couldn’t afford to pay for an art teacher, so I wrote letters to companies, asking for funding. Miraculously, I secured enough support to fund my position and buy supplies for two years. Those two years turned into seven. During that time, I fell in love with teaching—deeply and unexpectedly. I went back to school to formally study education, earning my master’s degree despite my father’s initial resistance.
Teaching at that school was both rewarding and heart-wrenching. Over the years, I attended the funerals of eight students we lost to violence or tragedy. Eventually, the financial strain of student loans forced me to leave my job loved start my position with Boston Public Schools, where the salary was twice as high. Yet, even with the increased pay, it became clear that I wasn’t in this profession for the income but for the outcome.
2001– A Year of Loss and Reflection
One of the hardest of my life. I just finished graduate school in May, but no one in my family attended the graduation, not even me. My father, newly retired, less than a year, passed away from cancer in April.
Just a few short months later, only the fifth day of the school year, the world would changed forever, September 11. I was glad my father did not live to see the world change overnight from the strikingly blue sky, to the biggest tragedy we've ever seen in our lifetime. I just started my first job in the Boston public schools, a small middle school in West Roxbury, I carried a heavy heart into my new role, struggling to reconcile the loss of my father with the weight of global tragedy. I could only think of one quote playing over and over in my head.
“I have a foreboding of an America in my children's or grandchildren's time -when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness… The dumbing down of American is most evident in the slow decay of substantive content in the enormously influential media, the 30 second sound bites (now down to 10 seconds or less), lowest common denominator programming, credulous presentations on pseudoscience and superstition, but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance”
― Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark (Written in 1996)
As I reflect on these challenges, I see that for me, teaching was a calling — a vocation that chose me, not the other way around. Even as the demands on educators grow increasingly overwhelming, I hold on to the joy that teaching brings. My greatest fear is losing the passion and light in my eyes, everything that keeps me connected to my students. I’ve seen it happen to others, I made a promise to myself that if that day ever came, I will step away rather than compromise the quality of my teaching.
Note To My Father
Dad, what would your words of advice be ? The pressures of teaching today are immense—, constant changes, endless evaluations—but I still find joy in the classroom. The light hasn’t left my eyes yet, and I hope it never will. You taught me to persevere, to always be learning, to find meaning and purpose in what I do and to never stop asking questions . I carry those lessons with me every day.
When one of my students recently asked, “Why are you smiling, Ms. Drakes you’re just cutting paper,” I felt almost... embarrassed. My answer, simple I told her: “I’m happy. and when you’re happy, you smile.” She looked at me her head tilted, puzzled but accepted it. For me, happiness comes from teaching, from seeing my students’ creativity flourish, and from knowing that I’m making a difference if ever so slight. So, thats why I smile. I can’t imagine doing anything else.
This is the legacy you’ve given me, I hope to honor it every day.