How I Became an English Teacher or A Rather Long Story

Well you see, this whole whirlwind of chasing the dream of becoming an English teacher started way back in Mrs. Burgoyne's senior English class. We were reading William Blake's "The Chimney Sweeper," and the poem struck me as one of the most tragic yet beautiful things I had ever read. I thought to myself, "It wouldn't be so bad if I got to do this every day of my life." So becoming an English teacher was added to my list of viable career options.

• Plan A: ballet instructor
• Plan B: high school choir teacher
• Plan C: high school English teacher

My first week at Eastern Arizona College, my slate was wiped clean of plans A and B. Not intentionally, but for the better. I went to my first dance class, and the second I set foot in the studio I knew that my days of dancing were numbered. It wasn't because I didn't enjoy the class or the teacher, but it was an unmistakable nagging that whispered, "This isn't for you. This isn't for your life." I danced as much as I could through my years at EA, but eventually the day did come that I danced for the last time. As for the choral pursuit, that option was taken from me as I couldn't sight-read music well enough to make it into the A Capella choir. Boo-hoo. It was not that significant of a loss. 

Then there was English. My only remaining option. I might have been tempted to feel sorry for myself, but I never did. It felt right and good. My English professor took notice of me and began using my writing as examples to teach her classes. My boyfriend (at that time) recognized my writing as it was used in a different section of this professor's class. "You should be an English teacher," he told me. That same boyfriend later pushed me to go to England and to pursue a Masters degree. At least for those reasons he was worth dating. Throughout my time at EA, I took as many English courses as I could, along the way falling in love with Alfred Lord Tennyson, Flannery O'Connor, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and hating Sigmund Freud. The night I graduated from EA, Lora and I went to thank two of our favorite professors for their inspiration over the past semesters, and we listened agape as splendor poured from their mouths in a conversation consisting entirely of literary quotes. It was something to aspire to.  

BYU came next, and it tried to kill me. By the end of the first month, I had my British literature teacher smear my essay with purple ink, and my history professor gave me my first B on a paper. I seriously considered changing my major. It was a long tear-filled night when I decided I just had to stick it out (a decision based mostly upon my inability to think of any other interests I had or talents I possessed). But then it all began to pay off. I discovered that I didn't loathe The Canterbury Tales, there was some value to American literature, The Enlightenment made very little sense, Virginia Woolf was a genius, it took enormous amounts of brain power to fathom literary criticism but what I did understand I highly valued (thank you, Dr. Samuel Johnson), I would gladly spend hours delving into British novels from any era, Edgar Allan Poe and Alfred Hitchcock were a perfect match, Ben Jonson too was a genius who happened to be often overlooked, I had a slight Jane Austen obsession, and Shakespeare was my one true love. 

From there, my plans to be an English teacher fell remarkably into place. I never really wrote about how it all came to be simply because it has all worked out so extraordinarily. At BYU I knew I wanted to pursue a career as a teacher, but I wasn't sure in what way. I thought about applying to the secondary education program, but that quiet nagging came again and I knew it wasn't the right decision. After graduation, I applied for my Masters at BYU and at NAU for two completely different programs. The one at BYU would lead me towards the more collegiate level with a looming PhD in the distance. NAU offered a more practical route through a secondary education program. I decided on NAU in the long run, but immediately after my study abroad I so desperately wanted to change my mind. I called BYU and found out that I had missed the deadline by a couple of short weeks. "Please feel free to apply again in the fall," the dean on the end of the line told me regretfully. "We would love to have you." My tears of disbelief led me to my mother who told me to say a prayer for comfort and direction as I was seriously considering reapplying to BYU and putting grad school on hold. I offered up a blubbery sort of prayer, and the minute my face surfaced from my damp mattress, my phone rang. It was NAU, and they offered me an assistantship which would give me a job, pay for my tuition, and give me the experience I needed as a prospective teacher. Whether you believe in miracles or not, it was a miracle to me. An absolute miracle. My mother was met with a completely different set of tears not a mere five minutes later. 

Now after three long semesters of grad school, I am embarking on my final semester as a student teacher at my alma mater. I am teaching literature in the very same classroom where it all began. 

As I see it, it has been the most miraculous journey of all.