Career Versus Vocation

Religion Class, High School. Brampton, Ontario. c 1999.

            “The difference,” said my teacher, “is that a career is just a job. Yes, there are opportunities for advancement, and yes, you do make money, but when we say ‘career’, that implies that it is not a calling.”

            She glanced around the classroom in that way that teachers do, checking for snoozing students or notes being passed. Then she continued, “A vocation, however, well, that’s a calling. A calling. Do you know what I mean when I say that?”

            A hand went up and the teacher gave an encouraging nod. One of my peers related it back to the lesson about prophets and how they are bestowed with a divine mission and the teacher’s eyes lit up enthusiastically. It was the Yes! You get it! moment that teachers have when the concepts are understood and the students demonstrate their understanding of the concept. She continued with the lesson.

            Career versus vocation… divine mission… calling…. I contemplated the terms, wondering when this divine mission is bestowed upon regular individuals. From my seat in that grade ten classroom, the eventuality of someday having a career – never mind a calling – seemed so far away. I thought that I wanted to go into medicine, and was quite interested in forensics, but there was still so much to learn, to see, and to do before then.

Teachers College, University of Ottawa. Ottawa, Ontario. 2010.

            Teachers college is rather tedious. There is a distinct gap between theory and practice that, when discussed within the confines of a faculty of education, is referred to as “the challenge of the practice”. Even more frustrating than that is the process of reflection. It’s as if the faculties sit around brainstorming how many different ways they can ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up? Why?”     
            It came as no surprise when at the beginning of a course, I was asked (yet again) to compose a short narrative explain how I got to this point in my life.

            The professor explained, “I would like you to tell me your life story in about two or three pages. Talk about your experiences with education and what has led you to want to become a teacher.”

My colleagues and I exchanged exasperated glances. Another reflection. As I sat down to write the story of my life thus far, I began to think about what I learned in grade ten Religion Class. Career versus vocation… divine mission… calling…. I contemplated the terms, wondering when my mission was bestowed upon me. I wrote:

My Life of Learning (So Far)

            I was excited about my very first day of school, not pre-school with the witch-like woman that wore dark purple lipstick and made me cry, but real school, where my brother went to learn how to read, and write, and count. In a meeting with my kindergarten teacher, I had to make the first big decision of my educational career – whether I wanted to be called “Becky” or “Rebecca”. I chose “Rebecca” because it felt like more of a big-girl name than “Becky”. I remember the sense of independence that I felt when my teacher asked me which name I prefer. That decision may seem like something small, but at that moment I came to expect big tings from school. It was a place where I could be empowered. I was on the brink of something huge.

            School was everything that I expected it to be. I was in a junior kindergarten class of ten students, and we all generally got along. I say, “generally,” because my first experience of being identified by race was at the art table in that kindergarten classroom. The librarian's daughter made a comment about my skin colour being different from hers. She said that it was, “like a pig's,” and said some other mean things. I didn't know exactly what to make of the comments at the time, but remember that I felt uneasy. As is the case with most schools in the heart of Toronto, in my class of ten children, there were other races and cultures represented, so I was unsure of why I was being picked on by this girl. I learned that not everyone would be friendly or welcoming for various reasons, and that although we are all people, there are differences that some people do not like.

            I excelled in school and all of my report cards said that I was bright and sociable, and that I get along well with others. My reading and writing skills were good, as were my math skills. I had some difficulty in French class, but by the time I reached grade eight, I had the top mark in my class and I received the French award at graduation. Unfortunately there was no room to continue my study of the language in high school, as it was an elective and I had dedicated myself to sciences and math. I wanted to be a doctor.

            Since childhood, I had been carefully coached by my parents and family that I would go into medicine. I struggled through high school classes, except for English and Religion, and that should have been a warning to me that I was not cut out for a career in medicine. Still, I graduated with less-than-stellar marks, and I was accepted into Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario on a conditional offer that I take a reduced course load, and a non-credit course about study skills. Study skills were not my problem. This became glaringly apparent when I excelled in all of the written assignments in that non-credit course, and in the essay requirement in first year biology. That essay was on tree roots, and I earned 100%. It wasn't even an exciting topic, but I learned that I can write very well.

            I continued to struggle in the sciences until the end of the first term of my second year. I knew that I had flunked the term, and that a future in medicine was no longer a viable option for me. I was miserable in the sciences, and I was miserable because I had so much trouble understanding what was going on. I was great with theory, and I soaked that up like a sponge, but when it came to working with numbers, I couldn't put theory into practice. The numbers were a source of agony and anxiety. In short, I learned that I can't do math.

            Over Christmas break of that year, I sank into a deeper depression than the one I was already in. I spent a great deal of time reflecting on where I had been, and where I was going. Where could I go? What could I do? Finally, in the midst of all this confusion, my mother asked me what I like to do, and I reflected on the difference between a job, and a vocation. What did I like? What was I good at? What did I think I was my calling? I learned a lot about myself.

            I loved to read and write, and I was good at it. What could I do with these skills? When I was younger, I expressed an interest in working with children. At one point, I was convinced that I would be a pediatrician. All of my volunteer work up until this point had involved children in some way. So it seemed logical that I could be a teacher. I switched programs and eventually graduated with an honours B.A double-majoring in English Literature and Religious Studies. I loved the combination of the two so much that I went on to complete a Master of Arts in Religion and Culture at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario. My area of research was ethics in children's literature, and that was fun for me because I got to read a book series that I love (A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket) and write about that. But the best part of my graduate studies experience was leading tutorials, and being able to teach. I learned what my vocation is.

            During my first year of graduate studies, Christmas break was the complete opposite of the break during my second year of undergrad. I volunteered at my former high school to find out if I really wanted to be a teacher. The teacher that I was working with welcomed me into his classroom and baptized me by fire. He handed me a lesson plan and told me to teach, as he had to complete late warning interviews with students. I was scared, exhilarated, and at home all at once, and I knew that this was where I was supposed to be. It took me a year and a half to complete my graduate studies, and then I worked full-time for a year. It was a customer service position, and I couldn't wait to resign and move to Ottawa to begin my Bachelor of Education. I lived the difference between a job and a vocation.

            My practicum was a wonderful experience. I taught a grade nine applied English class, in which thirteen of the fifteen students were identified in some way, and a chatty grade eleven University-level course of thirty-five students. The associate teacher that I was working with let me know that he was confident in my abilities, and he encouraged me to take risks in teaching and to try out different things in the classroom. The most memorable lessons that I learned from practicum were that the quicker you learn your students names, the easier it is to manage the classroom, and that group work doesn't work with all classes. I learned that I am a teacher.

My room, my parents' house. Brampton, Ontario. Today.

That was written fourteen months ago, while I was comfortably nestled within the confines of the academy. Not long after that, a widely published news piece let us know that there is a huge surplus of teachers in the province; 1000 retirees and 8000 new graduates. The article was mentioned by one of my course instructors with a less-than-encouraging, “Well, I hope you all have a Plan B!”

Plan B? But this is my vocation! My calling! My life’s mission!

In June of that year, after the process of filling out seemingly unending paperwork and online applications for school boards, I was released into the “real world” as one of approximately 8000 other newly certified teachers. That is when this part of my journey began.