I’m an under-appreciated, underpaid professional. I am belittled for working my chosen profession, told I whine too much and I should be grateful for all I have. After all, I live in America, I have a job, a place to live, a car, food in my refrigerator, clothes on my back, and yet, I’m not grateful. Why the hell should I be grateful? I am a teacher in a metropolitan district, and I’m treated liked shit.

A while back I was on a favorite social media site and someone I thought was a friend blasted me for having, and I quote, “sixteen days off from work.” Sixteen days? It took me a bit to realize she was counting weekends. So yes, I had a sixteen day break from my job. Most call it Christmas or winter break. Sixteen days I’m technically not paid for, but because my district pays twelve months out of the year, I kinda do get paid.

Now, before you say, “Why is she whining?” let me explain a bit further.

Teaching is not something a person just wakes up one day and says, “Hey, I think I’ll become a teacher.” Teaching is a calling.

I had wanted to be a teacher since I could remember. Despite other jobs I’ve held, my heart always pulled me back to teaching. I earned my bachelor’s degree and my license or credential (depending on which state you live in and what they call it) and tried to get a job. It took me a year to find my first job, and even though I was told to not take the first job offered to me, I did. Mostly because I knew there would be no other job offers coming.

My first year was great. I was a third grade elementary school teacher with wonderful students, supportive parents, great administration. Year two however, wasn’t so good. My so-called great administration turned out to be not as great as I first thought and felt abandoned. Truthfully, I was abandoned. At least, that’s what I’m calling it. I had a situation I wasn’t prepared for and wasn’t supported through. I had a student who had… issues. I really can’t say more, other than he was nearly the reason I quit the profession. Luckily, I took a class that helped me see it wasn’t me, it was him.

I left that school wondering if maybe I had made a mistake. That’s when fate stepped in and moved me to junior high. I found my true calling. I was blessed with an amazingly wonderful administrator who believed in me. He encouraged me to get my specialized license (credential) in English, and gave me more than a job, but a second chance. I owe that man so much.

Sadly, not everyone loved him like I did. He was removed from his position and replaced with a person who had no business being in administration. Though I cannot prove it, I do believe I was targeted because of my gender and my age. He made my life hell, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he was hurting me. The worst part was saying goodbye to my students.

Someone once said teaching is the only recession-proof profession. Let me tell you what pure bullshit that is. I spent the next three years searching for anything in my chosen field, begging for anything. I worked as an even more under-appreciated person: the substitute teacher. Hard to be recognized as a professional when even teachers don’t respect you. And why are subs treated so badly, because there are so many bad ones out there.

I had reached the end of my rope. I was ready to throw in the towel and say, “FUCK IT!” I was ready to walk away from my dream. I had been to dozens of interviews at local school districts and one in a Starbucks kiosk inside a grocery store. I interviewed at public and charter schools. I drove three hours one-way just for a chance at a job. And the list of reasons why I wasn’t picked are as long as both my arms together. I was so spent. My husband was now driving cross-country and gone for three to four weeks at a time, then home for at most a week, then gone again. Often, he’d get called back in early so my time with him was even more limited.

Then, one June morning, my life changed forever. It started with an email about a job in another state. I replied and moments later my phone rang. Thirty minutes later, I had a job offer that I took. It meant giving up my home and life in one state for a chance at life in another. It meant leaving my family and friends. It meant a second chance.

We moved in the summer and I started over. A new school, a new place to live. Six weeks after school started, I was forced to change grades and classes. At least I got to stay at my school for the year. It was a rough year and dark changes were on the horizon. In March I learned I was to leave my school, but not the district. My school was undergoing major changes. In May, I learned my fate. I was to return to my first love of middle school. I was blessed with seventh grade English.

My new school isn’t perfect. But then, what school is? I’m one of ten English teachers. We are the biggest department. I work eight to ten hours a day. Sometimes even more. I give up my Saturdays, and sometimes my Sundays for training. I grade papers from home. I buy classroom supplies.

So, to have this person, this so-called friend, call me out for being a teacher really hurt me. I wish to go on record that I am only paid for 185 days a year. I have two degrees. Yes I get two weeks off at Christmas/New Year’s. Yes I get a week off in the spring. Yes, I get my summers off. But what a lot of non-teachers don’t see is how many hours we put in that we aren’t paid for. I get paid for 7.2 hours a day, five days a week. I don’t get paid extra for grading papers or setting up my classroom (even though this year we got one day of contracted pay to set up our rooms). It’s not uncommon to find kids in my room working well after my “contract time” is over.

Are there kids I dread? YES. Are there days I’d rather stay home? YES. Are there days it’s totally worth it? YES! I love teaching. It’s not a job, it’s an adventure (okay, that’s the Navy, but they stole it from teachers). Teaching is a calling, like they say going into the priesthood is a calling (and I have total respect for priests).

The problem is, teachers aren’t respected anymore, we are treated like over-glorified babysitters. I heard a parent complain about early release and late start days and what they were going to do with their kids. It’s not like you don’t know these are coming. All districts provide this information in advance. Where is the concern about when a teacher has the time to grade over one hundred papers? Where’s the concern when we can’t post our grades because our system has crashed (yet again)?

I once had a parent verbally attack me in front of 24 fourth graders. Part of me wanted to knock her on her ass and return the insults, but all I could see where the big eyes of those kids who looked on in horror. It was in this moment I understood what those teachers, like the brave survivors at Sandy Hook or Columbine felt, the need to protect their children. I stood there and took her abuse. Later, when I was alone, I wept. I still weep now. That memory still hurts. It always will.

So, why do I do it? Why do I go back? When kids call me a bitch. When parents call me a racist. When administrators call me worthless. Why do I go back? I go back for that child that says, “Thank you, Miss, for helping me.” I go back for that one kid I think I can help. That one kid I think I can save. That one kid I think I can teach.

I go back, because I must. I go back, because I can.