When I tell people what I do for a living, the conversation usually goes something like this:

“What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” (At this point they’re imagining me wrangling all sorts of precious little graham-cracker encrusted cherubs.) “What grade do you teach?”

“High school.”

There’s a pause and a flinch. Their lips curl slightly, but they press on. “What subject?”

“English.”

And then the final kicker. “WHY?”

The utter bafflement at my willingness to enter a space crawling with hormonal teens is only matched by my own bafflement at their horror.

I’m accustomed to hearing woeful complaints about “kids these days,” but “kids these days” are the reason I’ve spent 16 years in the classroom.

The kids are kind.

I’ve lost count of the number of times my students have left me surreptitiously misty-eyed.

There was the student who was so determined — yet so terrified — to present her research project to the class that I was genuinely afraid she was going to faint at the front of the room. I was about to tell her that she was welcome to step outside and take a breath when her classmates took over for me.

“You’ve got this!” they chanted. Others clapped and nodded encouragingly. “We’ve got you,” they promised. They cheered when she finished.

There was the student who had been with me for four years and had struggled with his identity for the bulk of his high school career. During his senior year, in the midst of a class discussion, he came out, informing his long-time classmates that he was gay. I could see the terror in his eyes. His fists were clenched as he awaited their reaction. I held my breath — not in fear but in anticipation.

“Congratulations!” they crowed. “We’re so happy for you!”

It was the first time he had uttered the words aloud. They embraced him.

One of the most remarkable phenomena I have witnessed in my sixteen years as a educator is this: Every time I have a bad day and I feel ready to throw in the towel, some unsuspecting student blesses me with the gift of gratitude or a gesture of kindness, reminding me why I live my life according to bell schedules and essay deadlines. When I reach the end of my day and feel like I’ve fallen short of nearly every expectation I’ve set for myself, there’s a knock at the door and a former student appears, ready to reminisce on our shared classroom days. When I start to fold beneath the weight of my own lack of “enoughness,” a group of squirrely freshman will appear, insisting that I hear their latest tale of woe.

They never know how perfect their timing is.

The kids are engaged.

In the past several years, I have been approached by more students than I can count about their desire to become activists in a variety of areas.

One group became acutely aware of the power our young people can have if they become politically aware, and they proceeded to start a club focused on voter registration. Students with beliefs spanning the political spectrum joined forces and worked to ensure that their peers understand the power that comes with the vote. They held virtual meetings, shared links, organized virtual voter registration drives, and committed to helping their family members vote, many of them for the very first time.

Another group of young women approached me with their desire to start a feminist club on campus — open to all — where they could engage in open discussions of the everyday issues they face. They made a concentrated effort to create an intersectional community, and they have done a stellar job of ensuring that they invite authentic voices to speak truth to every issue and every experience. The result has been a group that oscillates in its function, from a think-tank brainstorming solutions and raising funds for impactful organizations, to a cocoon of support providing a soft place to land in times of struggle.

Yet another group worked totally on their own to start a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization dedicated to assisting the youth of our community as they cope with many of the challenges presented by the unique circumstances of our city.

The kids see problems. But they see the solutions too.

The kids are brave.

Everyone is familiar with the can-do spirit that emerged during the early days of the pandemic. As terrified as we all were of the unknown boogey-man that was COVID, there was something inspiring about the narrative that emerged. We all heard tales of the essential workers who became the heroes of the day, the people who had long gone unsung who were suddenly vital to the day-to-day functioning of society.

Everyone saw those stories. Not everyone saw what teachers beheld on their Zoom screens.

We saw our kids, these children, stepping up to take responsibility for their own education. And many of the ones we didn’t see were only missing because they were stepping up to take responsibility for their families.

I saw students bouncing younger siblings on their laps. I saw students making meals for their families. I heard students translating for their parents. I saw students in work uniforms, working in class, only to spend the next several hours working at a job.

I saw their fear of the unknown and their ache for connection. Their frustration and their dedication. I heard them ask for help, and I saw them accept help with grace.

I saw grit.

The kids are curious.

Any teacher will tell you: The questions are never-ending.

What is it like to get older when you’re always teaching kids who are the same age?

Why do people make us learn science in school if they’re gonna ignore science in real life?

Do you think it’s more important to make a lot of money or make a lot of difference?

How do you ACTUALLY use a semicolon?

Do you really think the author thought this hard about the story?

Why do all the stories we read in school end with the main characters dying?

And then there are gems like these ones:

Is it technically cannibalism if you eat a mermaid?

Were there color TVs when you were a kid?

How did you delete a wrong number on one of those old spinny-click phones?

Is a zombie a person or an object?

Do they sometimes try their hardest to steer me away from the day’s lesson? Of course. What kind of teens would they be if they didn’t? But do they also pose legitimately thoughtful questions that prompt me to pause, ponder, and set aside the day’s assignment to grab hold of that fleeting chance at an authentic teachable moment? Absolutely.

The kids are funny as hell.

I can’t imagine laughing this hard this often in any other role.

I once informed my students that I cannot stand the taste of watermelon, and it became the stuff of legend. It was the answer to a trivia question at a school wide rally, it is the first thing younger siblings mention when they tell me their older sibling was in my class, and I have accumulated more watermelon themed gifts than I can count: drawings, socks, mugs, lip glosses, paintings, and a personalized pair of watermelon Crocs. My students treat watermelons like they are my kryptonite, and their glee at my (mock) horror never fails to make me smile.

The antics continue.

I once heard a story, with all of the suspenseful build-up of a Stephen King novel, about a student who lost his pet lizard and mourned it for days — only to discover it hiding in his hair one morning.

My students started a Cat Wall in my classroom, a tradition which lasted ten years and led to a frightening number of cat images forming a gradual (and disconcerting) feline collage.

I once had a group Rickroll me during a live presentation — performing an impressively timed and well-rehearsed switch from a somber bit of Shakespeare to an energetic rendition of Astley.

They leave silly notes and cartoons on their papers — many which make me giggle when I’m succumbing to an essay-induced madness.

Even more importantly, they make me giggle when I’m succumbing to society-induced madness.

The kids are still kids.

There will undoubtedly be people reading this who will reflect upon their own negative encounters with teens and will see this as a celebration of mediocrity. They will roll their eyes and scoff about selfies and phones and TikTok challenges, ignorant to the fact that every generation has had their own brand of childish rebellion. The fact is, there will always be students who prompt me to clench my teeth and take a deep breath. They sometimes drive me nuts with their eye-rolling, foot-dragging, excuse-giving, late-arriving habits. It is in those moments that I think of them as newborn babies — squirming, sweet, and unscathed by life.

But when I peer through their hastily hung and threadbare curtains of sleep deprivation and ego-fueled bravado, I see the things that matter.

I think of my tough-talking ninth grader who tries with all her might to convey a total lack of regard for anything and everything — and then sends a nonchalant email letting me know that I should “definitely come” to her basketball game even though they “are definitely gonna lose.”

They seek connection.

I think of the students who run me ragged during their early high school years and then return just before graduation to apologize sheepishly for their silly antics.

They grow.

I think of the students who tell me they’re afraid to leave high school because they don’t know what they want to do with their lives — they just know they want to do something and be someone.

They care.

I think of the students who are sprinting at life, arms wide open, hungry for the chance to live it fully and anxious for the chance to live it well.

They hope.

At the end of the day, what nearly every single one of these kids wants is to feel valued. To feel like their teacher looks at them and sees someone worthy of time, energy, and enthusiasm.

Isn’t that what we all want?

There are plenty of things I fear about the future, but when I think of a future as it will unfold with my students at the helm, I’m comforted.

Why do I teach high school?

The kids.

They’re not perfect, but they’re pretty damned good.

It’s a start.