Teachers

Inhale. The scent of dusty pine bookshelves, the sound of the librarian stamping return dates onto back pages. Exhale, open eyes–stacks of multicolored volumes. I fix my gaze on the empty table in the corner, my happy place, right under the signs marked “coming-of-age” and “mystery.” I sit down and open Fahrenheit 451 to join Guy Montag in his quest to destroy the tyrannical Firemen. Sinking further into the chair, I forget where I am, my mind lost in Bradbury’s world.

My childhood library was my door to a thousand worlds. Here I met some of my most influential teachers: Carolyn Keene, Harper Lee, and Leo Tolstoy. Nancy Drew taught me to push my limits. Atticus Finch taught me that courage comes from who you are, not just the actions you take. Tolstoy was with me when I moved to Switzerland at the start of high school, my copy of Anna Karenina a familiar comfort amongst unfamiliar things. Anna is a reminder of how fortunate I am to live in a time where I can speak honestly, but also offers a warning of today’s dangerous political climate.

While literature has been one of my most significant teachers, I’ve also learned so much from art. Like books, art has taught me the power of storytelling. Growing up, I experimented with all types of media–from oil painting to glassblowing–and over the past few years, photography. Surprisingly, my enthusiasm for photography didn’t come from simply picking up a camera, but from years of watching TED talks and reading NatGeo. Taking photographs allows me to look at the details within a larger image, and capture a story, sometimes with unanticipated results. I see a teacher’s role as similar: helping students to make discoveries and find their own stories to tell.

For a long time I had limited knowledge of my Choctaw background, and I felt a part of me was missing: little did I know that it would teach me so much. Learning about my heritage has been a process, one that I’ve had to do alone–my parents divorced when I was two. Though I’ve struggled to connect with my people, I’m aware of my heritage every time a stranger asks about my “background.” I feel a bond to my expansive Native American community and experience apoplectic anger at the injustices my people continue to endure. Being involved with Amnesty International’s work to defend the rights of indigineous peoples has allowed me to understand two core parts of my identity. I am both a Native American and an activist and a Native American activist.

I learned to write from reading books, but it was my English Literature teacher, Ms. Eastham, who helped me realise I want to teach English. Before Ms. Eastham’s class, I would not have expected to say that my favorite writer is Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska or that Gogol’s words have impacted me as much as Brontë’s. Her teaching got me hooked on Toni Morrison, in class we read Beloved, and I went further, reading The Bluest Eye, Home, and Jazz. I admire the way Morrison addresses the harsh consequences of racism head-on, her words forcing readers to acknowledge realities from which they might otherwise look away.

Dear Teachers, thank you.

To the library, you gave me a place to travel in time. To David Griffin, for helping me realise that anyone can take a good photo, but a great photographer tells a story. To my Native American ancestors, for teaching me that justice is worth fighting for. To Ms. Eastham, for pushing me to keep my mind open to the unfamiliar and introducing me to a love of Polish poetry along the way. And to those I haven’t mentioned yet: Mom, for teaching me to trust myself, and Grandma who taught me to take risks. I look forward to sending all of you a postcard from college.