Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.

This often inflammatory quote has been attributed to George Bernard Shaw, a famous Irish playwright who wrote at the turn of the 19^th century. Shaw is probably most well remembered for Pygmalion, the play upon which the musical My Fair Lady is based. The original Shaw quote is, “He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches” and most likely was not his own invention, just an old proverb he chose to repeat and give some credence. At any rate, many a teacher today is faced with this aphorism and the question, “Why do we teach?”

Let’s be real…teaching is not only one of the most underpaid occupations in our country today, it’s one of the most thankless (supplanted from being MOST thankless only possibly my motherhood). Even in the socially and economically advanced twenty-first century, teaching is still one of the few jobs that allow a woman to pursue both motherhood and a career. Great, two thankless jobs for the price of one? Gluttons for punishment?

If an amazing salary and oodles of praise are not in the cards for a teacher, then again I ask, “Why teach?” I’ve asked myself this question several times over the years I’ve been a teacher, but it’s been even more in the forefront of my mind in recent months. I didn’t originally go to college with the intention of working in the world of education. For years I thought I would study art and become a commercial artist. By the time I was applying to colleges I thought perhaps I’d make use of my artistic gifts and academic prowess and pursue architecture or engineering. When push came to shove, however, I chose to major in English because quite frankly, I would’ve rather written a paper than crammed for an exam any day of the week. I had always loved reading and talking about books, so why not? I even tried a few education classes “just in case” I couldn’t find any other job than teaching, but I wasn’t hopeful after several semesters of very liberal educational philosophy. Straight out of college I took a job as an editor and administrative assistant and that was that.

Only when my son was in first grade did I seriously consider getting in front of a classroom. I realized that I still loved my books, and more specifically I had a hidden passion for juvenile literature. Maybe I could inspire young minds by bringing the written word to life while also teaching them critical thinking and writing skills. That, certainly, would be awe-inspiring and life fulfilling. Over optimism at it’s best, I guess. The reality of classroom life is not all blue skies and roses.

Students today are inundated by an instant world. Instead of learning everything they need to know in kindergarten (i.e. the classroom), everything they need to know, or think they do, is instantly available through the computer, the iPad, the iPod touch, Ask Cha-Cha, cable television, Netflix, or any other myriad of non-print sources. Surely those men and women who stand in front of them every day in that place called “school” can’t have any more information that they would need for life. Life? What’s that? What’s a “real world”? Each sophomore class I teach thinks it’s more and more intelligent and well informed than I am. Might as well start replacing teachers with T.V. screens and automate the whole process.

Yet, three days a week I still go to my classroom and send my son to his (homeschooling the other two days). There must be some purpose behind such an action or logic would preclude me from doing so. Undoubtedly my students could find most of the information I give them about American government and classic literature through outside sources in plentiful quantities. They might even be able to take the literary definitions they find online and make substantive associations to the texts they are reading all on their own. I didn’t say they weren’t smart. Can the technology care about them though? Obviously the technology can tell them about values and give them empiric definitions of these values, but can it hold them accountable? It can give them due dates, and even penalize them for failing to meet certain requirements, but can it be disappointed, and can that disappointment encourage them to do better next time? Is it always about a high score, or is it sometimes about hearing the human voice saying “Great job!”? Can the technology hold their hands when they are hurting, can it pray with them and for them, can it check back in and ask if everything is okay? Can it be hard and mete out necessary discipline with the hopes of correcting behaviors before they become too ingrained to change?

Honestly, I’m still not through asking myself the question. I’m also not sure I disagree with Shaw. Are there things I’m not doing because I’m teaching? Of course. Would some of those things be more rewarding both financially and emotionally? Perhaps. So why am I teaching? I guess I’ll keep teaching until I figure out the answer, because that one is definitely not readily available through our information age of sources.