You do fifteen personal statements, letters of introduction, cover letters in a week, and you start to get punchy. Like you’re justifying your existence to some blank wall. No—a gate. A guardian at the gate. You’re asking permission to enter. Another school. Where they teach educators. Where you earn a license to teach. Or another school where you actually teach.
Yeah. Like I said. I got punchy. I wrote letter number sixteen like my favorite cyber-punk author. This is my dystopia. This is what I’m afraid of:
Letter of Self-Justification
In adolescence, curiosity either dies or it doesn’t. Teachers are the variable.
My mother’s relationship with the library was industrial. Books in, books out. Stack never depleted. My father read Chilton’s manuals the way someone reads scripture—constantly, obsessively, to stay current. He understood systems that way. They never went to college. Didn’t matter. They built their own education. Built it out of books, failure, and the refusal to stop.
I do that. I teach that. I live that.
Five years teaching Italian at Michigan. Twenty years in software development. Teaching students; teaching programmers. Some learn visually. Some need the framework spelled out. Some need to do it, break it, fix it themselves. Hit a wall, you find a new angle. Keep finding angles until the wall gives. Walls always give if you don’t give first.
You have to read the person in front of you. Fail at that and they’re blocked. Frozen. You have to find the key. The key’s always where you stopped looking. It takes a while to backtrack.
I took a Java cert exam once. Failed. Blocked at 69%. One question below the line. I could have stopped. Instead, I reconstructed the exam from memory—got about eighty percent of the questions back. Spent the next month identifying my weak points. Systematized them. Took it again. 98%. That first failure wasn’t a setback. It was diagnostic. It showed me exactly where the key was hidden.
That’s the work. That’s what I know how to do.
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