Sam Merrin: An Education

When Sam Merrin was six, she saw a magician float a red rose in the palm of his hand, then close his fist and crush it completely, then open his hand, and there was a rose of another color as perfect in shape as the first. It was only years later that she saw this as a metaphor for her life: one thing is destroyed in front of her eyes, but another thing emerges, different, but just as beautiful.

When she was a child, Sam Merrin was inspired by her fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Brothers, who was the clear, polar star of Sam’s life. Mrs. Brothers was firm, but informal, and as committed to Sam Merrin’s education as she had been to the generations before her arrival. By the time she left the fourth grade, Sam Merrin knew two things: she would always remember the woman's grace and strength, and she would want to be like her.

So, Sam Merrin arrived at the doorstep of college bent on becoming a teacher. Which grades? Who knew? Through the years she had seen many middle school teachers much better suited for high school, and one very unhappy high school teacher who found his perfect joy teaching kindergarten. Yes, in the dead hours of night she would imagine herself in a room of fourth-graders challenging Mrs. Brothers, but she knew that this was a long shot. The best teachers find the place where they teach best, and she had no idea just where that was.

Her friends, some of whom Sam Merrin had had since elementary school, were skeptical. While she was busy acing every course and flying through the CBEST towards the end of her sophomore year, they insisted that her talents were being wasted on a future of bureaucracy, endlessly repeated lesson plans, and petty parental squabbles. This, they said, was a waste of her intelligence. Today's schools aren't the schools of just a few years ago. Why should she trap herself into a future of conferences with demanding parents, unruly rooms filled with ungrateful students, against a continuous background of alcoholism and drug abuse? If she wanted to help kids, they said, she could tutor kids on weekends.

Sam Merrin held two majors until her junior year: public relations and teaching, partly to placate her friends and partly because she feared that they might be right. The two majors were an easy fit; several papers from a PR class could be adapted to some present or future education class, and vice versa. In addition, she picked Computer Science as a minor, to back up either choice.

Somewhere in this mélange, there was a future career, with the other as a backup, but which subject? Of course, in her Junior year, the classes suddenly became more specific. No more papers crossing over. She felt like she was gripping two separating bars and had to let one go.

Sam Merrin's decision came one gray day when she was driving past a high school parking lot about an hour after school had finished. The teachers were loading their older, plain cars with armloads of papers, books, and projects: their homework. Suddenly she sobered. She was not even 21. Did she want to turn her life into this?

Sam Merrin turned her car downtown. The office buildings were just now letting out. Women in sleek black coats, walking briskly towards their late-model cars. More money here, more prestige. This was no longer not just what her friends wanted for her, but what Sam Merrin wanted for herself.

The fever broke. Sam Merrin dropped the education classes. Her vision became this: she would become a public relations professional for a technical or wine company. She was going to work in an office building with other public relations professionals, writing on laptops, going to lunch at places with cloth napkins, carefully arranged salads, and exquisite desserts. Her cars and homes would scale with her position: something like a Honda Fit and a small, elegant studio at first, going upward through the ranks of sedans and condos as her position in corporate life elevated.

With the burden of the education major out of her way, Sam Merrin trained for this life full time. Her friends celebrated her PR with Computer Science minor, and she was selected for several promising internships. Although she didn't graduate with high honors, she was proud of her record.

After graduation and a celebratory break in Hawaii, Sam Merrin sent her carefully prepared resume out and received several promising replies. She dressed in her best DKNY for every interview; first for her dream jobs, then for the jobs that would get her the dream jobs, then for the jobs that would pay well, then for the jobs that would pay the rent. Sometimes, Sam Merrin would make the second or third round.

Why was Sam Merrin never hired? Maybe it was her varied college experience. She was going up against candidates who had declared a PR major when they were freshmen. At the end of every interview, Sam Merrin always felt less than a full commitment from the person on the other side of the table, as though she had been too candid, or not candid enough, too positive, or a little too withdrawn.

In short, Sam Merrin felt that though she wanted the image, the car, the apartment, and the income, she was uneasy with the job itself. Coming out of the building in her sleek coat at the end of the day was a fine image, but sitting in front of a computer screen all day entering data or content for a client in whom she didn't believe was not the ideal job.

She was wrong for the job, and somehow it was showing during the interview. The upshot was that eight months after graduating from San Jose State, she was out of a job, and desperate.

Her friends must have sensed it. They took her out a lot. They began to talk about finding meaningful work. Maybe this was because, for most of them, their college majors had fed them into less than sparkling careers. Most were not as happy as they had expected they would be and were feeling trapped.

Finally, one night at a party, someone said, "I saw in the paper that the local high school is hiring. Maybe we all should have taken up Sam's majors!" Sam Merrin laughed. They all laughed, but she knew in that moment that her secret life, her backup life, was about to become her real life, for better or worse, and that her friends, who had rejected her early choices, were now laughing at theirs.

Sam Merrin Runs the Gauntlet

Sam Merrin had almost all the units necessary. A couple of phone calls found a high school in her area accepting applications. The units she lacked were not an issue; she could pick them up while she worked. But first, of course, the interview.

The school interview was just as hard as any corporate one. They, too, were dubious about Sam Merrin’s college training. Yes, she had some student teaching experience, but in middle school. Her sample lesson was good, but not inspired. And of course, she needed a few more units. Her sample lesson plan on computer literacy went well, though she did not think anyone in the room went home wanting to become a programmer.

Of the eight people in the room, the administrators liked Sam Merrin the most. She thought the teachers in the room tolerated her, but after years of instruction, good teachers save their excitement for the students. They tolerate adults.

After the interview, Sam Merrin went home and second-guessed herself for days. In the end, she felt that if she was hired it would be because the other applicants were worse, not because she was better.

She was hired.

First Day: First 10 Minutes

Sam Merrin dragged herself from the car into the bright cold morning sun, carrying way too much paper, stuffed into a bag way too small. Halfway to the airless, hot building she would spend the rest of her day in, she wanted to hesitate and rest in the sharp morning air. But there were stops to make, people to see, and the first students, from over-wrapped ninth graders to barely clad seniors, were already being dropped off. Not much time before first period, her first period ever on her first day of teaching.

The main office was hot. She would have expected a greeting, something in the way of, "Oh, you must be the new computer teacher," or "Welcome to your first day of teaching," but standing in front of the rows of mailboxes lining the wall, she was barely noticed. Teachers were greeting the teachers they knew. A few nodded towards her; Sam Merrin had gone to the two-day orientation. She had even done some student teaching at this school a year ago.

Classes had been changed at the last minute: some were now overcrowded, some class times shifted, some classes cut from the schedule. Something about administrators … something about unfinished renovation.

The teachers at the mailboxes were sorting fast. Catalogs went into the recycling, quickly followed by the white handout-a notice from the cafeteria-and a green handout they all threw out. Sam Merrin did as they did. Everyone kept the yellow. Yellow meant class changes. Sam Merrin read hers carefully. No changes. A fifty-year-old teacher brushed out the office door for her classroom. Sam Merrin followed; when you see a senior teacher running somewhere, you should be running too.