This is just painful at this point.
“They cut my position, Mom.”
They both look at me with confused expressions.
For. The love. Of God.
“They fired me! Let me go. There is no need for me. I’m done. Finished. Hasta la vista, Jefferson.” I only finish because I have successfully run the gamut of ways to tell them I am no longer employed.
By the look on my parents’ faces, you would have thought I told them I was moving to England, marrying into a British gang family, and planning to help smuggle stolen guns across the border.
“It’ll be okay, guys.”
“Well what about money?” says Dad.
“And the children?” says Mom.
“Have you been looking for a new job?”
“Yes, a new job! You know what they say — when one door closes just look for a window!”
“You spent a lot of time and money on your schooling, Claire Bear, it’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
“Well, we’ll just have to add this to our prayer list, now won’t we, Thomas?”
Okay, wow. I was spot on.
I wait to see if they’re done, my neck cramping from the tennis match that I just witnessed. When the silence tells me they actually want a response, I express everything I’m feeling.
“My principal wrote me a great recommendation. I have been keeping my eyes on the job postings, but honestly, I’m not sure I want to go back into the classroom.”
My dad goes to speak, but I continue before he gets the chance.
“Please, Dad, just let me finish. I know how much you guys invested in me becoming a teacher. I know because I invested a lot too. Maybe more in some ways. But over the last few years, I’ve realized that despite being good at it, I don’t love what I do. My lesson plans lack enthusiasm, I’m notexcited about going to work, and I’m feeling really burnt out when it comes to everything that goes with it. The constant emails and conferences, parent complaints, and student pushback didn’t bother me so much when I felt really connected to what I was doing, but now, it’s just exhausting.
And I don’t know what my plan is. I’m hoping that I have that figured out by the end of summer, but right now, I feel really good about forging a new path for myself. Maybe not something that is completely out of the realm of education, but I’m pretty set on leaving the classroom behind.”
My parents look at each other, then back at me, but no one says a word.
“I know you’re probably disappointed in me. You’re probably worried about a million things, but all I can say is I’m sorry and I promise that despite what you may think, I have really thought this through.” I stab a green bean with my fork and use it to push the others like a snow plow.
It’s all out there. Well, besides what I would actually like to do, which is begin writing my novel. But all of the details that are set in stone have been said and despite getting a great jump start this morning, it is way too early to even mention that I really want to write a book.
I’m startled when my mom reaches across the table and grabs my hand. My green bean shovel halts consequently. I look up to find tears in her eyes. Great, this is way worse than I expected. Biting my lower lip I look down again.
“Claire Elizabeth Dawson,” this can’t be good, “If you think that we could ever be disappointed in you for following your heart.” She turns to Dad. “Well, then we failed you somewhere along the way.”
My eyes shoot to hers as she blinks away a tear. Dad touches her arm but looks not quite in my direction. I am shocked, no, astounded. I told them I was done teaching and the world didn’t stop. No wars have started. Hell, even the dinner plates are still fully intact. It never even crossed my fanatical mind that they wouldn’t be upset, let alone that they may even support me.
Where the nerves once swirled, now sits a massive brick of guilt. I was so quick to assume that my parents, Dad especially, would be critical of my choices, that I didn’t even stop to think that maybe they would understand.
“Thank you, guys,” is all I can manage underneath all of this emotion.
Mom clears our plates, quick to leave the room and “gather herself” as she would say, calling out, “I’ll get dessert” only once she’s in the kitchen.
I play with my napkin, unsure of what to say to Dad now that I’ve exhausted all of my energy on just telling them the truth.
“Thanks again, Dad,” I say.
