Vocation Revelation

The temperature has plummeted below freezing as I stand on the sidewalk, turning lethargic and useless fingers and toes that were once pleasantly active. I have not dressed for this, I think to myself, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of a wool jacket. I'm listening to Christmas music on headphones, standing on Fourth Avenue in downtown Seattle, surrounded by a swarm of irritated shoppers, all marooned in a slushy city two days before Christmas. Grimy grey snow turns the streets to hardened arteries, slowing traffic to a standstill and somehow eating most of the city's Metro buses. Every other bus is headed back to the terminal, and most of the ones stopping at this ill-fated stop are headed north to the suburbs. Of the three buses that go back to my neighborhood, the rumor on the street is that only one is still running.

I'm thinking ironically of the newspaper article I read a few days ago, back when we were still in the part of the storm when school should have been happening. It was called "Five Antidotes to Cabin Fever," and it listed five charming distractions available to families after they took the bus to downtown Seattle. The comments under the online version became increasingly annoyed over the next few days, as the buses stop running and downtown becomes something of a trap. You can get here, for work or play or shopping, but you may be stuck down there until the snow melts.

I peer up the hill, south along Fourth, there is a bus in the distance, and I vow that if it is not my bus I'll walk home. It is a foolish vow, one easily broken, but I'm just cold and irritated enough to attempt it. I have no idea how far it is, really, or how exactly I'll get there. I know that between here and home there are several rather busy arterial roads and at least one gigantic bridge, which may or may not have a sidewalk. The other alternative is a bike path through train yards. I am cold enough and mad enough to do either, if this bus is not the right one.

"TO TERMINAL" reads the bus.

"We've been abandoned!" I wail. "That's it. I'm walking."

This statement, made aloud for no particular reason, catches the attention of a woman standing nearby. She is much older than I am, wearing a knit hat, thick ski gloves, and shiny red vinyl shoes. She looks up.

"Are you going to Magnolia?" she asks then, not waiting for a reply, declares, "I'll go with you."

This is a surprise, and not entirely a pleasant one. To my shame, I am often a genuine representation of my city, outwardly friendly for extremely brief encounters. This will not be a brief encounter; our remote corner of the city is not close, by any means. A better part of me scolds the aloof part soundly, and I pull the headphones out of my ears and stuff them in a pocket. I'm going on a trek with a stranger.

We talk for a while about the weather. This is crazy weather for Seattle, we agree. The buses are deeply flawed, and the disservice done to a whole neighborhood is unforgivable. We walk along the bus route hopefully, checking in with the stranded at every stop, asking for news of buses and feeling vindicated in our decision when we learn that none have come in hours.

As we near the edges of the skyscrapers, we begin to talk about work. I learn that she is a weaver and works from home, but this seems like a recent career change. Before I can gain any further details, she turns the question back on me.

"What do you do?"

It is only much later that I will be surprised at the difference three years has made in the answer to this question. The words are the same, of course, but the tone, the posture, the feeling behind them has all transformed. I used to shrug resignedly, even sigh, my tone all embarrassment and apology. I felt plain and common, and projected judgments from my interrogators back onto myself. Today, the words come easily and proudly.

"I'm a schoolteacher. I teach ninth grade English."

"A teacher!" my walking companion sighs delightedly. "I was a teacher. I taught high school French. I loved teaching high school."

"What was your favorite grade to teach?"

"Tenth. They know... nothing. They are just so awful. But so wonderful, you know? So much fun."

I do know. Incredible, the sense of understanding that comes with a shared vocation! We compare notes of her girls' Catholic school to my urban public one. We praise snow days, the delight of loving them as adults, beginning to reconcile with the snow that has necessitated this quest. We talk about language and literature, learning and travel with young people. For miles and miles, a discussion of teaching carries two teachers from downtown along the waterfront as the winter sun sets.

When we part ways in Magnolia, I walk home amazed by the conversation. I have been so unsure about and hurt by teaching in the past that I have hesitated to even admit that I work at a school, much less claim the title of "teacher." Today, I have spent hours telling and hearing stories about students. I think of my students and my school, every day there, with fondness and affection. Not because it is easy, though certainly it is easier now than it was. Without knowing how, I have grown into this calling, beginning to love it out of more than mere duty.