The Day We Learned Why I Teach
Not much can hold my interest for very long; blessed with an attention-deficit (and maturity) of a six year-old boy, my relatively short professional career is marked by instability and unfaltering randomness. In a few years, I’ve been a marketer, a designer, a filmmaker, a writer, an editor, an animal-rights activist, and even a restauranteur (one responsible for many, many animal deaths). I’ve even considered joining the FBI, and perhaps the only career I’ve never thought possible was teaching. So how is it that I ended up in a correctional education facility, teaching inmates, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it?
I didn’t know, and whenever an old pal asks, “Why the hell are you teaching?” I give the same generic answer—about how for many years as a “content creator,” I felt a disconnect with my audience and how i longed to meet and interact with them. Well rehearsed, the default explanation for this career change is that “it was ironic to feel alienated by not being able to communicate face-to-face with audiences of my work, which often dealt with themes of modern alienation.”
But of course, my students didn’t buy such a preposterous response, and promptly showed me the truth during one social studies lesson.
Looking up at a map posted on our classroom ceiling, I challenged, “Where is Iraq?”
“There.”
“Nah, that’s Morocco,” I said. “It’s here.”
“Dayam son! How is it that they’re so far away and still hate us so bad?”
“Um,” unprepared to belly-flop into the convoluted plot that is the modern history of the middle east, I teacherly explained, “sometimes economic struggles are unfettered by geographical constraints.”
A voice boomed: “What you talking about, Teach?” QB, the resident philosopher has finally awoken from his food coma and began to enlighten, “It’s because you can teach hate, but you can only show love.”
Intrigued, and very perplexed, I fired back, “What you talking about, QB?”
“Son, listen. It’s easy to teach—and learn—hate if you’re far away from the person you’re suppose to hate; think about it: it’s easy to not like someone just because you heard from someone–friend, family, TV, radio, internet, whatever—that the person did something horrible. It doesn’t even have to be true. You hear about someone killing a cat on the news, and everyone just hate him and make him a sworn enemy. Everyone, everyone, just wants to say nasty things and maybe even punch the dude in the face. It’s like everything gets personal all of a sudden.”
He continued: “But when was the last time you heard about someone doing something good and you fell in love with the guy? When was the last time you heard a good story about someone and you start loving him like family?” Now nodding, he dared me to disagree. “You can’t teach love, son. The person has to feel it, in person.”
He’s on fire now. “No matter what good we do here in America, the people over there won’t be able to feel it. Love is like touch, you see—it’s a feeling that only works if you’re next to the dude.”
“Hate though, that works like the GPS. Anywhere, anytime. And that’s why people over there knows how to hate us but not love us. Economic yada-yada unfettered whatever constraints….psshhh…whatever, kid.”
Mouth agape, at that moment I finally understood the reason why I stand in front a room full of inmates everyday, yammering about ethics and morals. For my entire life, I’ve made it a mission to edify—through art, words, films—about the power of compassion, of empathy, of love. But I’ve been going about it the wrong way; to teach love, one must be there to kneel when someone falls, to suffer together when someone cries. The book of love cannot be lectured; it must be shown, and felt. QB was right: Love is like touch.
“Ok, you’re right, QB.” I walk over to the great philosopher and dutifully punch him in the arm. “You feel that? I love you, man.”
“Ouch! Man, you the only teacher—the only person—that would dare touch me.” Shaking his head, QB lets a smile leak. “Anyone else knows they’ll get knocked out. You’re crazy, son.”
Yup, he felt it.
