Until this school year, Will Okun was a Chicago public school teacher. He traveled with Nick Kristof in June 2007 to central Africa, on the win-a-trip contest, blogging and vlogging as he went. You can see his reports at www.nytimes.com/twofortheroad. In Chicago, Will taught English and photography at a school with many students from low-income and minority homes.

I am ashamed to admit that I am no longer a teacher.

I can still remember the job interview; the principal was worried that I looked too young to handle a classroom. “Are you sure you can do this?” she asked over and over. In my mind, I was only going to teach for two years, to have some fun and to try to make a difference in the lives of young people. Of course, I almost quit many, many times that first semester. The work was too hard and I was frustrated that I did not know how to be an effective teacher. But through the guidance of my mentor teacher, I survived that first year and eventually stayed for eight more. I continued to teach for the same reason that all good teachers continue to teach year after year – I loved the students.

I loved laughing every day. I loved reading a good book out loud with the class. I loved coaching the basketball team and driving the school van. I loved standing in front of a classroom that had no choice but to listen to 90 minutes of my funniest jokes. I loved arguing about a story in the newspaper. I loved when a student finally volunteered to speak for the first time. I loved making my weekly Friday morning tests and giving pop quizzes whenever I became angry. I loved playing Erykah Badu in class and complaining about the terrible status of today’s hip hop. I loved greeting students by name in the morning and then saying goodbye in the afternoon. I loved when students said they were learning a lot in class and I loved when I too learned from them. I loved the parents who tried. I loved the photography class and talking with students while taking pictures after school (please visit my photography website at www.wjzo.com).

I loved the joy of Graduation Day and the seriousness of prom. I loved attending students’ family reunions, birthday parties, and baby showers. I loved the weekend school retreats to the country and the weeklong college tours. I loved the special teacher discount at the corner restaurant. I loved working with the other teachers in my school and sharing a bond of fellowship with teachers everywhere. I loved being recognized on the street by the community as a teacher. I loved hearing from former students who were happy in life. I loved the small victories that happened every day and the miraculous turnarounds that occurred only once a year (including the story of homeless teen Nicholas Bounds who now attends North Central College thanks to the generous financial contributions of NYT readers and other community members). Most of all, however, I loved sharing my life with these young people and that they allowed me to share a small part of their lives as well. I will keep these memories forever.

During my first five years of teaching, I dedicated the larger part of my energies, my dreams, my love and my finances to the success of both the school and the students. But even during this period, I still swore that every year was to be my last. I hated that many students did not try and that many parents did not care. I hated when teachers did not try to teach. I hated the negativity and lack of hope that persisted among the parents, teachers, and students. I hated that I had to Xerox novels because we were always short on books. I hated Chicago’s despicable 50% drop-out rate. I hated that motivated students silently suffered in low-expectation classes. I hated their lack of college options and career guidance. I hated the hostile hallway confrontations. I hated disciplining students. I hated the unfairness of the students’ poverty but also the obsession with materialism and violence. I hated the fear inside the school.

I hated useless staff meetings and teacher trainings. I hated my miserable salary. I hated classrooms packed with 35 students. I hated teaching standardized testing. I hated when teenage girls told me they were pregnant. I hated when fatherless boys disappeared into the streets. I hated that the people I loved were getting killed. I hated that these kids’ lives would be completely different if they had grown-up in a suburb less than a mile away. I hated America’s unequal two-tiered educational system that clearly favors the rich. Most of all, I hated the realization that our school and my classes were not powerful enough to change the lives of the vast majority of our students. Most never came close to realizing their full potential. Sometimes, I truly wondered if our school was making any difference at all in their lives.

I know that many urban teachers suffer a similar epiphany of disillusionment. Ask them. Mine occurred in the middle of my fifth year, when I was grading papers during a Super Bowl party. What was I doing with my life? Why was I dedicating and sacrificing so much and yet accomplishing so little? Perhaps I should have quit right then, as 46% of all new teachers do after their fifth year. Or perhaps I should have transferred to a charter school where educators, parents and students have created learning environments and academic expectations completely different from the surrounding neighborhood schools that are in the throes of seemingly irreversible failure. Perhaps I should have applied to the schools in the suburbs and made twice the money with half the frustrations. Perhaps I should have pursued a master’s degree in education to do consulting work or to assume a leadership role in administration.

Instead, I remained at Westside Alternative High School for four more years but I had lost my passion. I still enjoyed teaching but I was no longer willing to work the many extra hours that are mandatory to be a successful teacher in a failing urban school. I never stopped caring but I was no longer willing to struggle through the defeats and heartbreaks of the typical school day. Then, worst of all, one day this past year, for many reasons, teaching was no longer fun. I know that teaching is not supposed to be fun, and that most people do not enjoy their work, but teaching had always been fun for me. I became a teacher to make a difference in the lives of young people and to have fun, but now I was doing neither – not to the same extent I once had. It was time to quit the most important job I will ever have.

And yes, I do feel like a quitter. When I told everyone that I was returning home to North Carolina, many teachers and students expressed their approval and offered me the best of wishes. However, other teachers and students have angrily accused me of abandonment. In the end, I am essentially little different than the scores of other adults, leaders, organizations, schools and government agencies that have given up on the children who most need our help when circumstances became too difficult. While I have selfishly (but temporarily?) walked away, many great teachers and educators have refused to accept defeat. Instead, without fanfare or public support, they continue to struggle against tremendous odds, knowing that all of America’s children are capable of transformation and success with the right education.

These classroom teachers are my heroes and I, as one who knows the difficulty of their work, would like to pay them the tribute they so rarely receive. I also would like to express my love for all the students I have had the opportunity and privilege to teach. Even if I have not touched most of their lives, they have forever changed mine. Finally, I would like to thank Nicholas Kristof for so generously allowing me to share some of my daily teaching experiences with a national audience and to thank all the readers who contributed their many ideas and opinions. Every teacher deserves such a platform.

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