6:24 pm

 I want to be surrounded in this life with those willing to roll up their sleeves and do the work--not those waiting for fluffy egos to be stroked and self-created ideas of grandiosity to be confirmed.

At the end of long days with my kids, I gain my fulfillment in knowing that my energy, ideas, planning, expertise broke through the noise and distraction of a kid's preteen life to create a new thought...to foment the root of a dendritic pathway...to spark some curiosity in the world around her. I come back to my room each morning not really hoping for that promotion or leadership role (although recognition for good work is important) but hoping that Mesiah won't be late for AM homeroom again or that Eliana had a quiet place to work on homework last night. I stay rooted in the faces in front of me, hoping I can be part of their justice.

Yes, we all deserve to be recognized for our talents in this humbling, hard as hell line of work--but let's be willing to dig deeply into ourselves, into the dirt, into the practice of teaching each and every day. I write this as a self-reflection as much as a cry to other teachers.

To Be Of Use 

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy