Rugged Truths
Sadie bounced through the back door, ecstatic. She had a new math teacher, Mrs. Washington, a twenty-year vet (not of the armed forces but of the profession, though the line between the two seems sort of dotted if you turn your head just right.) Mrs. Washington had recently relocated and was new to Sadie’s school.
“She’s sooooo cool,” Sadie said, kind of bobbing her head, while grinning like she had a Super-Secret, as she no doubt held an image of her teacher in her mind. “Her room is bright and colorful, and we sit in stations to do our work . . .” Then, while dumping out the contents of her backpack on the kitchen island, “She puts a thought for the day up on the board and we read it out loud together at the start of class.”
“Oh! I love her already,” Sadie’s mom, Brenda, gushed.
Then digging even deeper into her newfound favorite’s traits, Sadie added, “Mom! She also has this plant that has these really thick, waxy leaves and it’s in this pot that is painted blue and yellow with bright red flowers, AND, it sits on its own rug on the ledge in front of the window. It has its own rug! It’s so cute!!”
Brenda couldn’t wait for meet-and-greet night to tell Mrs. Washington what a first impression she had made.
When it finally arrived, the reveal did not disappoint. Sadie’s 5th- grade math classroom looked like a seasoned professional’s lair. It was neat and orderly with just the right amount of chaotic stimulation positioned perfectly so as not to overwhelm. On the whiteboard, it was true: “Curiosity is one of the great secrets of happiness.” Next to the neatly scripted wisdom was the date, “September 17, 2025.” Impressed and duly excited, Brenda made a beeline toward Mrs. Washington, reaching out to shake her hand.
“I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you,” she effused. “Sadie loves your class. She loves that you start each lesson with a nugget of time-tested wisdom, and she cannot stop talking about this plant! She’s right—it is amazing—and such a fun and interesting addition to the classroom.”
“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Washington politely replied. “Sadie is doing great. She is engaged in class discussions, turns in most of her work on time,” then adding after a cleverly timed comedic beat, “the rest she hands in early.” The two women shared an I-get-you grin. Mrs. Washington continued, “She is unusually eager to help her peers, too. We might have a future teacher on our hands.”
“She has always loved learning,” Brenda responded with parental pride, “and school in general, though not necessarily math.” Both women laughed. “So tell me about this plant . . .”
“Well,” Mrs. Washington began, the word riding on top of a breath that seemed to want to come out but had no place it wanted to go, “The pot is there to break the window, and the carpet is for covering the glass.”
Painful truth can stop the world from spinning.
Alone together neither woman dared to breathe or blink.
This is where we are.
In a squeeze-your-eyes, bite-your-lip, say-it-ain’t-so kind of way, this is where we are. Our teachers, whom we routinely handcuff, often kick in the teeth, and regularly pay less than minimum wage, are expected-- in addition to flooring our society with the next wave of capable humans-- to create safe, well-disguised escape routes.
Is this really where we are??
Inside Summit Elementary, Candice Washington has erected a cauldron. Eleven-year-olds pile in and out and in and out and in and out all day. They giggle. And they whisper. They whine, flirt, argue, get distracted, forget their homework. Their teacher pulls and pushes different ones in different ways. She stretches them. They grow.
And they have no idea why the potted plant sits on a rug in front of the window.
This is what super-teachers do.
Holders of the most important jobs our country offers don’t get a say in what they’re handed. Kids file into classrooms sometimes hungry, sometimes sleepy, sometimes all hopped up on Mountain Dew.
Still, a teacher’s job is to reach them.
Deciders tucked away in ivory towers pass down edicts, then tie the hands of those they give them to. So what?
A teacher’s job, regardless, is to teach them.
And when evil sets its sights on unsuspecting children, a ninja teacher engineers a plan to keep them safe.
Her job, first and foremost, is to guide, guard and protect them. This is written in a teacher’s DNA.
Classroom leaders do not get to script conditions—and this is where we are.
Maybe Sadie has the make-up. Perhaps she, too, will one day design a space that’s warm and welcoming, a bubbly pot where young folks gather, where their minds and hearts are stirred, where floors open up to safe rooms and windows are paned with bullet-proof glass. It’s hard to imagine, in a decade, what she might have to ask herself to do.
“Education is the passport to the future,” the whiteboard at the front of Mrs. Washington’s room reads. “Our tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today.” We nod in staunch agreement, though never did we dream, a rug under a pot in front of a window would need to be part of a teacher’s plan.
God bless those on the front lines, for this is where we are.