Though some of you my not know this, my dad was a journalism teacher. Not only was he a journalism teacher, he was the best. I can remember sitting with my dad when I was little and watching him work his craft. He was unlike any other man I've ever known. Whether he was writing a serious piece or making up funny parodies about George Bush, he was an amazing writer. I'd like to think that by becoming and English teacher, I'm leaving a part of his handprint on every student I teach. Language is an art and if anyone taught me that, it was my dad. When I find myself missing him most, writing helps me feel close to him. I sometimes feel as if his hand is on my shoulder as I write a creative piece or speak my mind in my journal. Yes, my father was a master of this art.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
I find myself to be rather surprised. Things don't usually happen very easily for me, but sometimes, on a rare occasion, things come together. On Friday, I turned in my student teaching application. For awhile, I fought the idea of becoming a teacher. I tried convincing myself that it wasn't my calling, my passion. But somewhere along the road, I didn't find my passion, my passion found me.