The Altruism Myth

When I was a youngster, tying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, I knew a few things.

The first was that I didn't want a job my kids couldn't explain to their friends. (I used to hate when I asked a friend what his dad did for a living and the kid would respond: "I don't know -- he goes out and comes in with a briefcase.") I wanted a job that you could sink you teeth into: teacher, policeman, baseball player, assassin. That kind of thing.

Second, I wanted a job in which I could use whatever talents I might have had. 'Nuff (as they say) said, on that. Pretty straight-forward.

Third, I wanted a job that meant something; a job in which I could affect others positively.

So now I'm a teacher, as my main gig. Mission accomplished, on all three counts. Except, I tend to doubt my motivation for the third criterion.

Mother Theresa; a rare breed, indeed.

At some point, I came to an understanding about myself -- that I became a teacher in order to contribute positively to those around me, because, you know, a job should be important and people should not pursue careers that are selfish. It just ain't Christian. The question is whether or not this understanding is just a myth I have created in order to bolster my own sense of self worth.

We like to pretend life is about making choices, but, in reality, so much of it is about dodging falling rocks and scooping up free cookies. It's cool for me to swagger around, smooth my eyebrows and say: "Yeah. I became a teacher out of concern for the youth of America. I wanted to give of myself to my fellow humans."

But did I? Or did I become a teacher because I like books and wanted to talk about them and think about them for a living? Truth is, it was kind of an accident. And the truthier truth is, maybe I was thinking more of myself than of the poor, culture-starved youth of America.

Am I Smart Enough to Teach Fifth Grade?

Yesterday, I taught a class of fifth-graders. It was the only time in my teaching career that I felt even a little nervous. It was my son's Language Arts class. He's been dying for me to come in -- some of the other dads had. One was a cop; the other was a fireman. I think my son wanted to show the other kids that his dad was as cool as the other dads, which, clearly, he most certainly is not. How do you compete with firemen and policemen?

Still, I do have the being-in-a-rock-band thing going for me, so I slipped that in. They were impressed.

A fifth grade class of the past. 

Anyway, I did a mixed kind of career-day/creative writing lesson with them. I started by telling them I was going to read their minds. I asked them to think really hard about what they want to be when they grow up. They squinted; they rubbed their own temples; they held their breath. I acted like I was trying to read their minds. We all giggled a little.

After a while, I said: "Okay, here it is..." I pushed a button on a PowerPoint and a phrase emerged: "A Happy Person!"

They all laughed. They knew I was right, but I was still wrong. They had all thought of careers. We talked about a question: Why is it that when people ask us what we want to be when we grow up, we spit out a job?