Application essay

Initially, I would like to apologize for my complicated Exploratory Experience Log. Throughout the Winter Semester I volunteered at the School my mom works at in Spanish Fork Utah and for the local TOPS program. In the summer I volunteered in Window Rock Arizona for the Navajo Nation. While on the reservation I worked in the public school’s resource classroom in the morning and at St. Michel’s Catholic school in the afternoon. Each day the principle at St. Michel’s Catholic school would assign me to assist in different classrooms- I did a lot of art with the students while I was there.
At first, when I told people I wanted to be a teacher they would cup my hand in theirs and say that I could be anything and should not “just” be a teacher. Then I would question myself. On the reservation I had experiences that made me want to find all of those people; shake their hand again; look them in the eye; and say yes, I am going to be a teacher as confidently as I say it now. My imagination could not dream of something more fulfilling. I learned every day from my students, what I said and did mattered, and I inspired others to be brave.
I firmly believe teaching is sharing knowledge not simply distributing it; I hope my students learned as much from me as I learned from them. One of my students was really confused with me- as a person. His brad switched the ground as he shook his head and looked at me again, “yah a Navajo?” I smiled at the question (my honey blond hair and strawberry cream skin) I must look odd to him, “no…” I said. He squinted his eyes and tried again, “but this da Navajo reservation; what yah doin’ here?” The question did not catch me off guard- I had expected it, “I came here because I wanted to be your teacher. I wanted to be with you.” He looked at the two second grade boys on either side of him as if to say did you hear that; she came here to be with me! With that he leaned back in his chair, “I’ll teach yah Navajo.” I smiled at his genuine token of friendship. Although the only Navajo I remember is Bilagaana (white person) I did learn: the colors of the west, the importance of community and the influence passion can have. I enjoy teaching because it is a chance for me to continue my own learning.
The things I said and did mattered. In one of my classes I asked the students to list colors that described Window Rock (a local natural monument). At first, it was like pulling teeth to get the students to think beyond just red and brown. I would not settle for that; within a few minutes the list began to snowball: sand brown, a scribble through fire engine red, an arrow connecting blue to the color of my shirt, and a circle around basketball orange. When the small chalk board was out of room I erased a portion and kept on writing. I called for more colors- there was silence. I almost dropped the chalk in my hand when I turned around. The students were leaning out into the aisle, standing up in the back row, gripping the edge of their desks- all their eyes were on me waiting for me to say what was next. In that instant I understood that what I was doing mattered: Window Rock, their color being written on the board, me (their teacher), and they (the students) all mattered. I enjoy teaching because it matters.
I learned that a teacher has the opportunity to help others become brave. It was my last day and most of the students were putting their books away while I sketched. The boy next to me leaned over his desk to watch. He shook his head no, making his straight black hair switch when I told him with practice he could draw better than I. My fingers continued to roll my pencil across the scratch paper and his gaze followed the images as they took shape. Soon he stopped watching my pencil and looked at me, hunched over with my face hovering above my drawing and asked, “Why do you draw?” I stared at my paper, not daring to look in his eyes, “I draw because it makes me braver. Every time, before I draw I am afraid I will do it wrong- that it won’t look good. At first I did not show any one, but now I am brave enough to. Draw, draw, and practice drawing until you are brave.” I looked at him. He was staring at a smudge on his desk- he knew more about bravery than I did. To get off the reservation he would need to be brave. To overcome the stigmas against him he would need to be brave. To simply face each new day he would need to be brave. A harsh ring chimed the end of school, fourth graders and backpacks began to wave towards the door. We stood up. His young eyes studied mine for a moment and he whispered, “I will practice drawing.” He took one more look at me and asked, “And when are you coming back?” I shrugged; I did not know if I could come back, and if I could I did not know when. He nodded knowingly, his hair bounced stiff against his forehead. I can still see him walking out the doorway in his red school uniform; he looked so brave.
I do not question if I want to be a teacher, and I do not let others believe that I doubt my choice. When I think of being a teacher I see the students I worked with. Their coffee brown eyes, ember black hair, and high cheek bones all staring up at me- trusting what I say and sharing with me what they know. When I am in front of a classroom it is a chance to share, teach, and be taught. The excitement that enters a classroom when the subject matters is more than fulfilling – it is contagious. I think of the millions of other children: green eyes, black skin, and thin faces. Children sitting in stiff plastic chairs (children not even in chairs) staring at the smudges on their desks convinced that they can never be an artist, a doctor, a politician, and they are simply afraid to dream. I could not imagine anything in life more fulfilling than to be one of the bricks that helps to build children up – builds them up to be brave.