As I prepare to graduate college, I am more than excited to finally get my degree that I have worked so hard for (although I don’t officially graduate until the end of Fall quarter next year, I still get to walk this Spring). Graduating with my Bachelor’s Degree in Early Childhood Education, I cannot help but reflect on how I got here.
I started my time at SPU with a major in Sociology, which then became Journalism, which turned to Special Education, before finally landing on Early Childhood Education. I went into college fully intending to jump head first into the field of social work post-grad, but as I furthered my education, I found myself drawn to teaching. I realized the root of this magnetism was due to my own experience as a student. Contrary to the traditional story, this captivation for becoming an educator was not because I had an incredible teacher who inspired me, it was quite the opposite. I was inspired to become a teacher due to a string of mistreatment by the education system and some less-than-kind teachers. One story in particular jumps out at me as I reflect on my unideal schooling experience. I have changed all names and identifying information for the sake of this interesting teacher.
When I was in elementary school, I had a music teacher named Mr. Johnson. Every Tuesday, all 30 of us would file into our assigned seats in front of his giant piano and spend the next hour of our lives doing our weekly routine: vocal warm-ups, play with boomwhackers, and rehearse whatever song he chose for the week. Mr. Johnson was extremely strict; you come to class quietly, you sit in your assigned seat, and you do not speak unless you are spoken to. Disobeying any one of these rules was a sure-fire way to experience the wrath of Mr. Johnson: a lecture in his booming voice that has the power to turn anyone in a 1-mile radius into a puddle of tears.
A few months into Kindergarten, I had quickly caught onto these rules and had wedged my way onto Mr. Johnson’s good side. I was a rule follower, I was enthusiastic, but most importantly, I wanted to help others. One fateful Tuesday, I and the rest of Mrs. Smith’s Kindergarten class filed into our assigned seats in front of the daunting oak piano, where Mr. Johnson waited for us like a drill sergeant on judgement day; but something was off. My classmate was in the wrong seat. Knowing the anger of Mr. Johnson would soon reign down onto this poor 5-year-old, I politely told him he was in the wrong seat and showed him where his correct one was. Mr. Johnson heard this interaction, and rather than thank me for my assistance or ignore the exchange all together, he exclaimed that I needed to stop being such a “bossy boots”, and for the next 5 years, he never referred to me as “Emma” again. I was Bossy Boots. While this cheeky alliteration was seemingly harmless, it crushed me. Every time I heard the dreaded nickname spoken in my direction, I would pray that the fire alarm would go off and cut our music class short. Even in my 20s, any time I hear Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, a song he made us sing for months on end, I am reminded that my biggest bully for five years was a 50-year-old man. As I embark on my teaching journey, my biggest goal is to always be someone who uplifts my students and reminds them of their strengths, not someone who brings them down and makes them a caricature of their flaws, not to be Mr. Johnson.