Those Who Can't, Teach? Watch Me.

Summer break had rolled around again after the completion of my sophomore year. Once again, I found myself revisiting my old high school haunts and catching up with familiar faces.

As many college students know, when returning home for the summer, you are bombarded with questions. “How’s school going?” and “Are you enjoying your classes?” are amongst the typical small talk and polite chitchat inquiries that arise.

“Are you enjoying journalism,” an older gentleman asked me.

“Well, actually, I just changed my major.”

“Oh, really? What did you change to?”

“Literature.”

“Literature, huh? What can you do with that?”

“I want to become a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

Yes. I wouldn’t have said, “I want to be a teacher,” if that wasn’t what I meant. I nodded instead of answering with one of the sarcastic remarks scrolling through my head.

“Well, you know what they say,” he said.

I just stared at him, confused as he started to chuckle.

“Those who can’t, teach,” he said, jokingly.

I laughed uncomfortably in response, pulling at the bottom of my shirt. Apparently he didn’t notice, though. He’d already sauntered off to talk with someone else.

Since I decided to change my major sophomore year, I’ve wondered at this stereotype. Teachers can’t? Teachers can’t… what? I’ve always felt like a capable, cogent woman with a lot to bring to the table. What wasn’t I capable of doing?

Perhaps it’s assumed that the journalism program was too tough for me? Hardly. I succeeded academically in the field. I completed a paid internship with a publishing company. Internships automatically make people think of coffee runners and file cabinets. That’s not what I did. I wrote, edited, brainstormed, attended meetings… I acted as an assistant editor.

The problem wasn’t in my ability. It was in my calling. I took my first journalism class during freshman year. I entered the class eager and determined, but I quickly found myself feeling stale. Why wasn’t I feeling fire racing through my veins as I studied this stuff?

That summer, I had decided to hire myself out as a tutor in reading and writing to make a little extra cash. I worked with small groups and individual students. I also worked at a day camp with K-6 kids. Sometimes it was difficult, but when I saw the light turn on in their eyes, I felt a spark in my own heart ignite.

What I hadn’t experienced in journalism class manifested itself during tutoring. Why? I asked God “why” more times than I care to admit. I fought with God and myself for nearly 3 months. Was I really supposed to be a teacher? What about journalism? I had been so sure in high school that I wanted to be a journalist.

Two years later, and I still feel at peace with my decision. I know what I could do with my current degree. I could apply to publishing companies. Edit. Write. Work for a magazine. Despite popular belief, a degree in English isn’t a career-suicide move. Just like teaching isn’t a cop-out for the incapable. That’s certainly not why I chose to teach.

If you’re unconvinced by the ability of a teacher to do anything he or she wants, I recommend you watch Freedom Writers. After watching that movie and seeing real life examples, I’m convinced that good teachers can do anything they set their minds to. They can reach the unreachable, change lives, develop the talents of future doctors, lawyers, engineers, business people… all of those people that society considers most successful – you can bet they have good teachers behind them.

So, when you log on to Facebook and read through your news feed, thank a teacher. When you write out your resume to apply for a job, thank a teacher. Heck, if you rocked that job interview, thank a teacher. As you crunch numbers to balance your budgets and pay bills, thank a teacher. If you can read the label on your medicine bottle, thank a teacher.

Albert Einstein. Confucius. Aristotle. Plato. Jesus. All teachers. Yes, that's right.

Although I was initially stunned by the dogma, “Those who can’t, teach,” I now have what I consider to be a reasonable response.

“I can’t? Watch me.”

Broken or not?

“Megan, honey, go to the doctor!”

My mother’s words rang in my ears, droning like an alarm clock. Repetative. Unceasing. Annoying. I blinked, slightly dazed as I stepped out into the muggy Missouri heat. Danielle and I traipsed across the parking lot towards CVS, breaking into a sweat after only a few steps.

Over the years, I’ve learned to ignore what I consider minor aches and pains. Upon landing in Kansas City, I had experienced some pressure adjustments in my ears. You know, that annoying feeling when your ears won’t pop. When people talk to you, you feel like you’ve been shoved into a barrel. Everything suddenly becomes muffled.

If the aches and annoyances had stopped there, I might have avoided the doctor’s office. But they didn’t. My nose filled up. I started sneezing and I felt like someone had super glued earmuffs to my head. My mother began to scold me from 1,500 miles away; bless her.

“Megan, I think you have a sinus infection. Go visit a doctor,” she pleaded.

“Don’t worry, mom. It’s nothing,” I insisted. I believed it too. As per usual, I was prepared to keep on trucking.

Finally, a sleepless night forced my hand. I had just plopped down on my bed when the coughing ensued. I don’t know what I expected. By this time I knew I needed medicine. I coughed until my abs hurt. At one point, I ended up in the bathroom having a coughing fit.

Sleep deprived, sore, stuffy, and suffering from temporary hearing loss, I finally pulled up Google maps to search out a minute clinic in the area. But I couldn’t help feeling a little indignant. I’d given in unwillingly. I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t feeling well.

Danielle disappeared down the pharmacy aisle as I sauntered to the back of CVS. A nurse practitioner sat in an examination room tapping away at her keyboard, door ajar. I peered inside and she looked up at me.

“Sign in,” she said, pointing to a touch screen to my left. I nodded and fumbled for my wallet. Extracting my medical insurance card, I proceeded to punch in my name and address. No prompt for my insurance information. Oh well. I stuck the card in my pocket.

No one else seemed to be waiting, but it still took a moment for the nurse to call me into the exam room.

“Go ahead and sit down,” she said. Her tone, though pleasant, denoted boredom. She immediately scanned my face, noting the bags under my eyes. The coloration of my cheeks. The sniffling sounds I made when I took a breath.

“Sinus infection,” I stated. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I have.” She nodded, tight lipped. Her expression told me that she knew my assumption was probably correct. But she appeared to be refraining from giving a professional opinion.

“So how will you be paying for your visit today,” she asked, whirling her chair back towards her computer.

“Oh, here’s my insurance card,” I said. She took the card. A look of slight confusion crossed her face.

“Kaiser,” she stated. “Where are you from?”

“California,” I said flatly. I had anticipated such questions.

“I’ve never heard of this carrier,” she replied with equal flatness. After another moment of scrutiny, she ran a search for Kaiser in the company database.

“Oh,” she muttered as I slumped forward. I could already tell this was going to get complicated.

“CVS in California accepts this carrier,” she told me, but we don’t.” I held in a sigh. Yes. Complicated indeed.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but it isn’t listed in our system as a carrier we accept.”

Great. Now what?

“How much will the visit cost today?”

“Ninety dollars. That doesn’t include pharmaceutical fees.” She seemed to be sizing up my response. Did I look like I could afford a visit? Would I resort to begging?

“How much do you think medications will cost?”

“If you have a sinus infection,” she replied, “An additional twenty dollars.”

“Oh, good,” I thought. “We’ve broken triple digits.”
As I processed the costs, she seemed to take my silence for shock. And shock apparently translates to, “I’m broke. I can’t pay you.”

Like a worn out recording, she switched into automated response mode.

“Here is a list of other local clinics. They are listed by distance. If you would like comparative costs, please dial the numbers listed below.”

I wanted to say a lot of things in that moment, but I’m glad I didn’t.

“Do I really look well enough to drive 9 miles to the next clinic? You know what I have. I know what I have. All you have to do is hand me a slip of paper that says SINUS INFECTION. That’s all.”

I wilted slightly as I reached for my purse.

“Here,” I said, handing her my credit card. “Go ahead and start the examination.”
Without missing a beat, she took my card and rang up the numbers before she turned to look at me. The card cleared. That's all it took.

Out of formality, she looked at my ears, nose, and throat. She used some over-inflated term to tell me what I already knew, and then she sent me on my way with a prescription to the pharmacy.

Within days, the medicine made a drastic difference. My nose cleared up, I slept soundly, and my hearing came back. I’m thankful I took that visit.

I’m a healthy twenty-something. I have health insurance. So tell me why a nurse almost refused to see me. What happens to those who are sicker than I was?

I guess I’m just too sympathetic. Or idealistic. Or realistic. So I ask these questions. We’re dealing with lives. Lives don’t have a monetary value. They’re priceless. Irreplaceable. That single fact trumps all others, no matter how you feel about health care. It can’t be disputed.

So, you tell me. Broken or not? Is our health care system really working? I don’t claim to have any answers. I can only speak from my experience. A rather disheartening one at that.

To be honest, I hate to weigh in too heavily on polarized issues, but I feel like this needs to be said. Somebody, somewhere, PLEASE figure out a system that isn’t government run or capitalist driven. Neither side seems to be a winner at this point.

Day 91 - August 13, 2010 - Chopin

“Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.” -Frederick Chopin

Charles Schultz is amazing. I love reading peanuts comics because, really, Schultz and I think a lot alike. He's so interested in the complexities of childhood, yet he recognizes the simplicity of it as well. There's so much to learn when you are young. So many things you have yet to experience.

This particular comic strip reminded me of the first time I heard Chopin... and the first time that I began to appreciate classical music. They are two distinct events, yet they are related. When I was small, I didn't really understand classical music. I thought it all sounded similar. I had no idea!

Chopin is entirely different from Mozart. Mozart is different from Beethoven. Beethoven is different from Bach. Each one wrote from the soul. Chopin, for example, created short, specific, and beautiful scenes. He painted pictures with his music. When I saw this comic, it make me happy to know that Charles Schultz felt the same way about Chopin. You just have to hear the music; take it in. Just let the music paint a picture in my mind.