There’s been a decent amount of hoopla in my life the past few weeks. I wasn’t expecting it, and I don’t particularly like it. But I’ve decided that if hoopla’s gonna hoop, then I’m going to use it to my advantage.

Back at the end of August, my imposter syndrome shifted into high gear when it was announced that I was my supervisory union’s Elementary Educator of the Year. This led to about a month of constantly second-guessing most things I did. Was I teaching like a teacher of the year is supposed to? Would my new co-workers or students discover that I actually didn’t know what I was doing? What would happen when the illusion shattered?

Over time, I managed to make peace with the recognition and feel kinda sorta good about it. I work with some great people who have nursed me through it all and gently guided me to, if not full acceptance of my teacher of the year-ness, at least a solid detente.

Then, a couple weeks back, the local paper published a story about me, and the whole thing flared up again. Expect worse because now word has gotten out, and people want to talk about it and congratulate me and say things like, “I saw you on the front page.” This past Wednesday was the official awards ceremony, and I hoped that would be it. But there were more conversations today.

I appreciate the kindness and support, but really, I just want to teach and plan and prep. I got to thinking this afternoon, though, and I decided I’d take this as a chance to say a few things that need saying.

I think a lot of my discomfort with this recognition stems from the fact that, at least in my mind, I am being recognized for results that come not from me, but from the kiddos – giants in many ways – who put in the hard work of showing up, learning, and growing. None of that is what one would call easy these days. Compound that how they have to put up with my dad jokes, forgetfulness, and general nonsense, and the odds are stacked against them.

Whatever recognition I receive is because of them. I stand on the shoulders of these unassuming, pint-sized titans, whose personalities, grit, and attitudes tower over me. And without them, I am nothing but a 50-something dude talking to an empty room.

But here’s the thing.

As my students raise me up and make me look good, I am not alone on their shoulders. In fact, it’s a pretty crowded and heavy situation for their little deltoids and trapeziuses (trapezii?). What’s up there with me?

This is far from a complete list, but among other things being borne by my students, I am surrounded by:
• constant demands for students’ attention;

• moms and dads not being around as much as they’d like to be, or in some cases, not there at all;
• perceptions among adults that “kids these days” aren’t what they ought to be;
• neurodivergence and/or learning disabilities;
• neglect;
• physical, sexual, and/or emotional abuse;
• bullying;
• technology that is designed to be addictive;
• food insecurity;
• leaders and celebrities who are poor role models;
• dealing with standardized testing on top of regular academic demands;
• the old standards of drugs and alcohol, plus newer menaces like vapes.

With one, some, or all of these things (or other stuff that isn’t included here) confronting students on a daily base, it’s an absolute honor that the kiddos are willing to bear me upon their shoulders and make me look like I know what I’m doing.

At this past Wednesday’s ceremony, the topic of Vermont Teacher of the Year came up. I can self-nominate for that honor next year. There’s all sorts of stuff that goes along with the honor, like working with other educators to push the boundaries of public education further, traveling to some pretty interesting places, maybe even going to space camp.

But I’m not interested in that.

I’m interested in what ideas my students might generate for taking public education to the next level. They have as much or more insight as a roomful of teachers. I’m interested in giving my students opportunities to travel. I know kids who have never left the county, let alone the state, and the opportunity to see more of the world would be an impactful experience that might change their world views. As for space camp, it sounds cool. I bet I’d have fun. But I know some young people who would have way more fun and maybe walk away with more willingness to dig into their learning and work toward a career in science.

The Teacher of the Year plaque that I received in August hangs on my office wall. Despite my reservations, I’m proud of it. Truly. And the certificate I received this past week will go up too, as soon as I get a frame for it. But there’s nothing I’m prouder of as an educator than the kids who spend their days with me. I receive multiple awards each day as they reluctantly raise their hands to answer questions with uncertain answers, share a hard feeling, or pull out of a big behavior and turn a rough day into an awesome one.

I’m (arguably) a grown up. I can go and do whatever I want. But when it comes right down to it, when school is in session, I just want to be in my classroom with the tiny giants who make me appear so much bigger than I am. And if a Teacher of the Year recognition can put the spotlight on these towering individuals and their needs, then all the uncertainty and discomfort are worth it.