I love the final paragraph of the piece:
"Most literature we read will pass from their memory. Some works will stick. One poem might change them. It is a beautiful possibility that such an epiphany can occur in as mundane a place as a classroom. That same hope keeps me from burning out in a profession that is as exhausting as it is exhaustive. I hate how teachers are portrayed by politicians and education reformers; I hate how we are reduced to caricatures. But I keep that frustration from my students. After all, it is for them that I am here. I believe in them, and I believe in words; I better believe in both, because I might be somebody’s last English teacher."
Truth be told, though, I love so much in this essay. I love words as sacraments, as salves. I love that there are still teachers out there who work as hard as they do because they might just be that last English teacher. I know I feel that burden, too. It is nice to know that there are other like-minded teachers out there now. My PLN, my learning community, lifts that burden from me, allowing me to see I am not the only one. I do, however, still tend to teach like I might just be.