Inside the Mind of an Educator

I know the moment when my life changed forever. The details of the last few minutes of “normal” are etched in my memory, and after 23 years the images have not faded.  I was skipping with my classmates to “Skip to My Lou My Darling,” when the secretary came into my first grade classroom and asked me to follow her to the office. I still remember the somber look on her face, and how long the hallway seemed as she stoically escorted me to the front doors. I was scared, and I was trying to rack my brain for any inclination of what I could have done wrong to get sent to the office. I was a good kid, and never did anything “bad.” In-fact, I hardly ever talked, and had never had problems with anyone in school.  When I saw my aunt standing by the front doors, I sighed with relief and smiled.  However, whatever relief I felt at seeing her standing there was short lived because I could tell something was wrong. It was a long agonizing few minutes as she quietly deferred my quest

    Education is a word I have valued throughout my entire life. Not because my family has been the “Straight A Valedictorians,” but because this was something lacking in our lives.  My mother did not finish high school because she got pregnant with me, and my father dropped out his senior year with four months left to go. Therefore, even as a small child, I was taught to believe that education would be the one thing that could save you from a life like the one my parents faced.     The hardships, struggles and financial abyss caused daily worry lines in my parents’ faces.  My mother was responsible for caring for the house, and making the little money coming in, work to fill our stomachs.  Daddy worked many different jobs to help Mom with the responsibility of keeping us fed and clothed. He was a garbage man, maintenance worker for the city of Cabool, mowed lawns, cleaned city hall at night, and many other odd jobs that allowed us to survive. He worked so hard to provide, and we never