To stress his point he said to another guest; “You’re a teacher, Bonnie. Be honest. What do you make?”

Bonnie, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, “You want to know what I make? (She paused for a second, then began…) “Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could. I make a C+ feel like the Order of Canada. I make kids sit through 40 minutes of class time when their parents can’t make them sit for 5 without an iPod, Game Cube or a movie. You want to know what I make? She paused again and looked at each and every person at the table.

I make kids wonder. I make them question. I make them apologize and mean it. I make them have respect and take responsibility for their actions. I teach them to write and then I make them write. Keyboarding isn’t everything. I make them read, read, read. I make them show all their work in math. They use their God given brain, not the man-made calculator.

I make my students from other countries learn everything they need to know about English while preserving their unique cultural identity. I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe. Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they were given, work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life. Bonnie paused one last time and then continued.

Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing money isn’t everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because they are ignorant. You want to know what I make? I MAKE A DIFFERENCE. What do you make Mr. CEO?

His jaw dropped, he went silent.

A truly profound answer!!! Teaching is the profession that makes all other professions possible!

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It isn’t that I haven’t tried to think of something thoughtful and kind… quite to the contrary. For months, I have combed catalogs, browsed specialty shops and department stores, inquired of novelty shops, and even searched the Internet only to realize that no bauble or trinket or card could measure up to the feelings of a mother’s grateful heart and a teacher’s loving dedication.

How I wish a colorful bundle of fresh wildflowers could reflect the beauty of your way with children — the constant patience and nurturing, the gentle encouragement. A keepsake basket laden with soothing soaps and bath oils would eventually serve only as a common gift were its sturdy, woven walls not filled to overflowing with examples of the individual ways you have touched the lives of your students.

Jewelry would surely be nice, but what can I afford that would not soon tarnish or grow quickly out of style? You deserve the gems of royalty for your perseverance and creativity, your devotion and talent. During the past year, I have given you many small gifts, mostly intangible ones.

At the moment the first school bell rang last August, I placed in you my trust, believing you would teach my child and reserve respect for me as a parent. I added to that my constant and fervent prayers that you would be objective and fair with the ability to set limitations while offering my child a chance to learn self-control and to soar a bit in the process. I sincerely petitioned that your classroom would be a safe haven for my child to grow and learn, lending itself to the crazy, yet somehow perfect, mixture of self-discipline and controlled instruction. I prayed for your health and your happiness, and your ability to be supplied with the tools necessary to complete your task as teacher and educator and mentor. I offered you my time as often as I could, and my support for your endeavors. Occasionally, I even offered you a challenge when I spoke my mind, sometimes standing firm, sometimes backing down with a renewed assurance or a “wait and see” attitude!

I wish with all my heart I could put a delicate ribbon on a gaily wrapped package and give you a “something” to express my appreciation and affection, but I have nothing to give you that would surpass the most precious gift I have ever had to offer and which you already so graciously accepted months ago — the one you have held close to your heart, laughed with and probably cried with, applauded and scolded, lifted and encouraged, molded and shaped — my child!

And today, as my child returns to my side for the summer, the gift I humbly give to you is found deep within my heart…

I give to you my thanks.

By Amanda Krug

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A Spanish Teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.

‘House’ for instance, is feminine: ‘la casa.’
‘Pencil,’ however, is masculine: ‘el lapiz.’

A student asked, ‘What gender is ‘computer’?’

Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether computer’ should be a masculine or a feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.

The men’s group decided that ‘computer’ should definitely be of the feminine gender (‘la computadora’), because:

1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else;
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and
4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

(THIS GETS BETTER!)

The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine (‘el computador’), because:

1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;
2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves;
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model..

The women won.

Send this to all the smart women you know…and all the men that have a sense of humor.

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A Texas teacher  was helping one of her kindergarten students put on his cowboy boots?

He asked for help and she could see why.
Even with her pulling and him pushing, the little boots still didn’t want to go on.

By the time they got the second boot on, she had worked up a sweat.

She almost cried when the little boy said, “Teacher, they’re on the wrong feet.”

She looked, and sure enough, they were.

It wasn’t any easier pulling the boots off than it was putting them on but she managed to keep her cool as, together, they worked to get the boots back on, this time on the right feet.

He then announced, “These aren’t my boots.”

She bit her tongue, rather than get right in his face and scream, “Why didn’t you say so?”, like she wanted to.

Once again she struggled to help him pull the ill-fitting boots off  his little feet.

No sooner had they gotten the boots off when he said, “They’re my brother’s boots. My Mom made me wear ‘em.”

Now she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. But she mustered up what grace and courage she had left to wrestle the boots on his feet again.

Helping him into his coat, she asked, “Now, where are your mittens?”

He said, “I stuffed ‘em in the toes of my boots.”

She will be eligible for parole in three years.

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