Dear Teacher with a Guest Speaker,
I have an English teacher friend who has singlehandedly discovered the key to staying in the field of education for many happy years.
Through intellectual prowess, she once fenagled to line up 156 guest speakers for one school year. It was pure genius.
Through a well-rounded assortment of speakers, students learned about college applications, credit monitoring, how to change a tire, embalm a body, and the dangers of acetone to a nail bed.
To be successful in life, one most definitely needs a set of properly groomed hands.
The guest speaker track was the envy of her colleagues, myself included. We called it the real-world approach, which, when boiled down to its truest form, really meant a "get out of jail free" card. I define a "get out of jail free card" as a momentary reprieve from being the person directly responsible for the dog and pony show of that day's learning.
At only 24 days of actual teaching, I suppose I could have happily taught until I was 92 years old had COVID not thrown a monkey wrench in my rock solid plan.
These days a guest speaker couldn't get through the doors of a public high school without flashing proof of vaccination or agreeing to a full body cavity search.
I am so glad, back in 2017, when Sean Deitrich (Sean of the South) visited Pace High School, he did not have to consent to either.
If you don't know Sean of the South, I feel sorry for you in the same way I take pity on those who have never eaten boiled peanuts or entered a grocery store in bare feet. All I can say is, "you're really missing out."
I can't even recall how I persuaded Sean to visit. At the time, the only thing we had in common was that his wife was from my hometown, Brewton, AL, and she may have frequented Big Bear without shoes when she was a kid like I did.
Apparently, a hypothetical barefoot bond with his wife was strong enough for him to oblige my request. He loves Jamie, and it doesn't take more than two seconds to see why. She's a good ol' Brewton gal, which is about as high a compliment as I can pay anyone in this life.
I vividly recall talking to Sean on the phone for the first time. His thick accent sounded like home.
We had previously exchanged a few vague emails, but two days before his arrival, he called to firm up plans. He asked me what he should speak about. I suggested maybe something about nail beds or acetone. He didn't know much about either, so I followed up with, "Honestly, we don't care if you show up and read names from the phone book. You have a solid fan base here. We already love you, so there's no way you can screw it up."
An unconditional love like that will make any man show up, I suppose.
People who hear about his visit want to know if he is as kind and genuine as he seems in his blogs. I tell them the truth. "No." "He's way better."
He brought free books and indiscriminately signed them for people who told him his blogs made them weep every morning and for the others who asked who he was again.
This was before he was published in Southern Living and starred in AFLAC commercials. I won't say his visit to Pace High was his big career launch, but I will say, I bet we'd have to shell out more than a pan of homemade biscuits and a signed Addison Russell baseball to secure a return visit. Then again, maybe not. He really is that nice, although I'm not sure he is nice enough to consent to a strip search with a smile.
Come to think of it, he was the last guest speaker I ever had. If I never have another one, I'll die content.
His visit was the personalized gift of Doublemint gum in the knothole of a tree. It was sweet enough to know I'd met an elusive friend I would never forget, even if I never see or hear from him again.
He and Jamie ate lukewarm biscuits and laughed with my colleagues like they were at a family reunion, only it was a family they had just met.
Afterward, he graciously serenaded a bunch of silly yearbook girls with his guitar, read excerpts from the book he donated, and fielded a bushel of questions that were even more foolish than the ones they had for the mortician. My personal favorite, "Is it hard to write?"
I don't remember how he responded because I momentarily blacked out from utter shame.
I'm assuming he shares my sentiments. If there is something harder, I haven't found it.
Sean started writing blogs in 2014. The countless readers who enjoy his daily blogs may not realize he has written a new blog (no repeats) every single day for the last seven years. If you're doing the math, that's a shade over 2,000 blogs.
I've written 70, and I am dang near exhausted.
I've read almost every single word he's ever written, but in doing so, I've never seen a blog about himself.
He writes about other people. He tells the tales of our places, our loves, our people. He puts words to what others know but don't quite know how to say, and this is why we love him.
On the four-year anniversary of his visit, I would like to humbly pay tribute to something I know he never will: himself.
I can't be certain he will ever read this, but if he does, I hope he knows I speak for the entire congregation when I say, "Thank you for noticing others so acutely, for putting voice to what is so hard to say, for loving so courageously, and for temporarily suspending each of us from the grim burden of reality."
In a nutshell, you are our daily get out of jail free card.
Could there be a better gift for a teacher attempting to teach in a global pandemic or any person trying to survive another day in a shaky world?
-CDB
P.S. Thanks for writing about your visit. We will never forget it.