All this talk I’ve been entertaining about teachers who leave, teachers who stay, and why, isn’t theoretical for me. A fairly mass exodus of committed and brilliant professionals from my building occurred this past summer, coinciding with the departure of the sometimes infuriating, ever inspiring dy/dan. The Tempered Radical has just adopted a baby and wonders if he can sustain a family on his salary. The best urban educator I know has been kicking around nursing school and other career choices. I feel…bereft. Blessed. Scared.

The list of gifts over which I have no control– a principal who provides wiggle room, a director with a shared vision of literacy, a diverse but generally socioeconomically sound caseload, a supportive and smart team of teachers who care for each other, and a curriculum which still allows me to muck around a bit and have fun– this list is ridiculously long. It will not last. What can I do in the meantime to turn the tide in favor of my own retention?

I can realize that my longtime dream of a Ph.D. is a final exit. I wish it weren’t true. But if only for the financial burden and the slow roll of innovation, it is highly unlikely that I would be able to return to the classroom with a doctorate and find some sustainable use for it with the kids. This latter scenario would be the only reason I personally could justify leaving for doctoral work in the near future, after only this mere handful of years of teaching. Realizing this– that the system cannot really integrate or balance these two callings of mine– is truly saddening, but also comforting. It’s taken a burden off my shoulders I didn’t realize I was carrying.

So there’s only one answer, isn’t there? I have to do the Ph.D. when I’m actually ready to be a teacher of teachers– that is, when I’m ready to leave the public secondary classroom for good.

I can’t even predict when that would be. In my dream world, my list sustains me for a decade plus at least, giving me sufficient courage, strength, and experience for harder teaching conditions, when they come. But all I can say for certain is that the time to leave is not yet now.

And this gives me a clearer, morally supportable vision of where I am headed. It gives me terra firma: my used bean bag chairs, that thrill of hope for a new workshop approach this year, my classroom library to be balanced, top-heavy with historical fiction (and how did that happen? I don’t even like historical fiction all that much)… uneaten macaroni and cheese sitting on the desk as I alphabetize one more shelf, wondering what kids will like and love upon them in just a few short days.

It gives me a commitment to being here.