Words, words, words free essay sample

I have always has a passion for teaching. From the time I was a kid, I would fight to be the teacher when I played school with my friends. I wanted to be the one to write on the chalkboard and give my friends assignments. My love for English, too, has been unwavering: I’m still proud to say I hold the record for longest summer reading list at my middle school – one hundred and twenty-one books. It’s something that defines me, something that makes me who I am: the words, the books, the poems. The best teachers I’ve ever had were English teachers. They didn’t just stand up in front of us and lecture. They inspired us; they were students too. Last April I went to Ireland as an extension of my sophomore year Irish Literature class. In visiting the W. B. Yeats exhibit at Ireland’s National Library, I was profoundly moved by the simplicity of the objects on display: his eyeglasses, a lock of hair, a portrait of him sketched by a friend. We will write a custom essay sample on Words, words, words or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page What moved me most was his worn copy of Emerson’s Walden – the same book he touched, annotated, fell asleep over. This was the very copy which inspired him to write â€Å"The Lake Isle of Innisfree,† the poem which, in Yeats’ own words, is â€Å"the only poem of mine which is very widely known.† It became real to me. Trying to explain this, however, was difficult. My teacher, in an effort to fill in the words I couldn’t find for myself, said â€Å"It’s surprising, to realize that. That he wasn’t just a poet. He was a student too: he read, never stopped learning.† That struck a chord with me: here were two people, a poet and a teacher, who had formed their careers around the desire to learn. I am like that. I learn because I love it. In the back of the English wing at school, I am home. Amid the taupe and sage floor tiles, the rows of bland lockers and the curled, yellowing bits of newspapers and poems stapled to the crimson walls, I feel safe. I sit and read books I don’t quite understand while discussions I can’t quite hear float over and around me, the sounds a soft red interspersed with fluid tendrils of peach and lemon. I sit here and feel the wisdom of eighteen teachers saturating the air. I want to learn. I want to share. I want to teach.