Comroe: Teaching is part of longtime Cape educator’s soul
Dr. Brian Comroe teaches eighth grade social studies in the Cape Henlopen School District. He was Beacon Middle School’s Teacher of the Year for 2020.
While difficult to comprehend, I hit a milestone birthday this summer.
Remembering that it is not polite to ask one’s age, there was, of course, the obligatory party, the once-in-a-lifetime trip, an unwanted subscription to a retirement magazine and plenty of “older than dirt” cards. Note to self: I don’t like the color black, and I really need to go to the gym more often.
With this significant half-century mark came the inevitable midlife crisis. As I started to shop for a new sports car (my spouse put a stop to that pretty quickly), I came to the brilliant and controversial idea of career change — leaving the field of education.
Cue the gasps, panic and shock.
After 25-plus years as a teacher, I felt my life expectancy had run out. Simply put, I was tired. And not just age-tired but teacher-tired.
As so many of my fellow educators have certainly experienced, the ideal classroom environment resembles little from the days of my collegiate teacher training courses. Noneducators find it amazing that I don’t own a piece of chalk, that computer programs now can write essays for you and that many textbooks are antiquated. I use headphones in class, allow work to be turned in digitally and don’t require blue or black ballpoint pens.
It is probably no great shock to anyone that academia is faced with myriad hardcore issues, including minimal support in the classroom, lack of parental involvement, political interference in academic requirements, kids vaping God knows what and huge increases in student mental health issues. Throw in poverty and hunger, and these concerns dominate the lives of students even before educators can begin to teach the lesson. Schools are vastly different from what they were five, 10 or 50 years ago. Trust me, I was there.
Now, before my friends, colleagues and administration freak out, I should clarify that my ingenious midlife crisis plan was to transfer to a new genre or subject area, move to a different grade level and/or advance to administration.
Regardless, the Fates know me better than I know myself — for this year I will return to exactly the same content area, grade level and classroom I have inhabited since I was a way younger man. Thusly, midlife crisis averted.
You see, being a teacher is ingrained in the heart and mind. It is part of an educator’s soul. While it is perhaps easier to be negative and cranky as I move toward the sunset of my life, the multitude of good that teachers, paraeducators, counselors, nurses, secretaries and custodians do each day for our young people is beyond measure.
September is a new beginning and a breath of fresh air, no matter what my knees tell me. Kids need me, and I will need them in the retirement home.
It goes without saying that, every August, parents, teachers and reluctant students face the stone-cold reality that summer is quickly approaching its subjective end, and the new school term is beginning. As I speculate the “autumn” of my life, both physically and metaphorically, a quick walk through any number of the larger retail stores is irrefutable evidence that time is against us. The clock is ticking. Back to the packed lunches, back-to-school clothes and alarm clocks for all!
The other day. I met my team for lunch. These eager and hopeful ladies, who are young enough to be my children, always help to recharge my mental battery. We gossiped, debated and bet on what the coming academic year would be like — and a twinge of familiar nervous excitement began to emerge within my soul. Quickly checking for a pulse or other major health impairment due to my decrepit age, I couldn’t help but wonder if, deep down inside, I am exactly where I need to be — teaching young minds.
It always happens that, when I walk along the boardwalk — usually eating something that my cardiologist would faint over — I run into former students. While I may not remember names due, I always remember the faces. I am blessed they think of me in such high regard. We hug, fist-bump, laugh and eye-roll. We talk about the past and the future. Some have wished for their kids to be in my eighth grade class, and, not going to lie, one or two have even offered to buy me a drink. Now, I really feel ancient. As a wise classroom teacher who once used a typewriter, I know, deep down inside, that life has a funny way of working out.
So, with my dried-out leather briefcase in hand, old-man comfy shoes on my feet and gallon-sized coffee pepping me up, I will return to my beloved classroom. My room will be decorated with posters and decorations older than my students. I will guide, nurture and teach every size, shape and notion of student who enters my doorway. For who knows? When I see these youngsters at the gym, they may need to help me lift the heavy weights.
