Most children wait for the last day of school in anticipation, exploding in revel when that last day finally arrives. I, however, cry. I have never wanted to leave school. In fact, when I was a child, one of my favorite things to pretend was Teacher. Much to my parent’s dismay, I drew student names on practically all my large pieces of furniture. Undoubtedly, if you were to peruse the contents of my mother’s basement, you would probably still find a plastic container labeled with a name such as “Cera” or “Tyler.”
I extended this love of teaching to my cousins, two of which were in special education classes. Lessons covered a variety of topics, from the complicated architecture of the Egyptian Pyramids to developmental reading strategies. Of course, this love of teaching should hardly be surprising; education is the family business. Both of my grandmothers and my parents were/are practiced educators. Conversation revolved around the first day of Head Start, the last day of senior year, and everything in between. I am quite comfortable in that setting. After all, “Take Your Child to Work Day” always positioned me in a school.
My initial career goal was to become a teacher, an English teacher to be precise. English has always been a strong point for me. However, there was one sagacious professor who left an indelible impression on me and, consequently, intensified my desire to teach English. That professor was Mrs. Brock. Perpetually distracted, Mrs. Brock was often seen juggling a stack of papers and a cup of tea, while searching frantically for her glasses. Despite this, her lessons were replete with captivating wordplay and stirring sensibility. She emphasized the inevitability of humor when infused with profound intelligence and crystalized my love for reading and writing.
Due to this, I easily saw myself teaching literature or creative writing to young students.
Indeed, I had all intentions of becoming an esteemed English professor – until I took Personality
Psychology my sophomore year of college. I suddenly felt a tug toward Psychology, largely in part because of my fascination with human nature, and decided to take additional classes: Child Development and Abnormal Psychology. The discipline soon consumed me. By the end of the semester, I was already seriously considering a career in child psychology.
The following summer, I obtained employment at a childcare facility in order to verify my love of working with children. Since the center serves children ages two through twelve, I was able to observe several different stages of cognitive and moral development and, naturally, every moment involved adventure. On a daily basis, while the children overflowed with enticing enthusiasm and innocent curiosity, diverse issues and situations demanded exploration. Not surprisingly, I returned to college with cherished memories of the center and the children.
After learning of my developed passion, my mother suggested that I consider School...