On August 19, the actress Kerry Washington opened the third evening of the Democratic National Convention by mentioning that in the seventh or eighth grade she’d studied the Constitution and memorized its preamble. She was talking about my class at Spence School in New York back in the ’90s.
Stunned by her reference, thrilled that she was the host of a national political event, and excited to cheer my former student on, I grabbed my phone, opened the app, and tweeted to the world that I was the teacher Kerry had mentioned.
I put my phone down and turned my eyes back to the broadcast. But within a couple of minutes, I heard the ping of a response.
With her one tweet, Kerry prompted an avalanche of more than 85,000 likes, comments and retweets. Some were directed at me, but most either praised teaching or the teachers who had made a personal impression. My original tweet to Kerry also received more than 60,000 interactions, which I certainly wasn’t expecting when I typed it out and pressed send.
Teachers who reacted to either tweet recalled past favorite students and expressed thanks for raising the profile of professionals, many of whom have been asked to do too much, with too little, in the midst of a pandemic. And quite a few commented that the whole exchange made them feel better about our troubled world, and about Twitter.
After reading through the shout-outs and expressions of teacher love, I certainly felt better about the world and Twitter. Indeed, as someone who left classroom teaching a number of years ago, I was startled by the emotion these testimonials stirred up. I felt so proud to have been part of this noble tradition and tribe.
I think that some of us pop out of the womb aware of what we are meant to do. I was not one of those people. But I did know this: more than anything, I wanted to care deeply about what I did.
That came from observing my mother, an actress who moved to Los Angeles after she and my father divorced. She made a fair number of commercials and special appearances on various TV shows, and while she wasn’t as successful as she’d have liked, she loved every minute she was on set. Watching her, I learned that work could be a source of tremendous joy—and I wanted that for myself.
Luckily, I found it—in teaching. For me, teaching offered an opportunity to glimpse and encourage the potential in young talent. Teaching history was, to some degree, a means to that end. Because if a student struggled in class, I’d be sure to catch their dance recital or basketball game. I wanted them to know that I had seen and appreciated them in their element.
I taught constitutional law because it enabled my 13-year-old students to understand the dynamic nature of prevailing—and often limiting—systems and assumptions, which they had the power to change. Many people have asked me on Twitter whether the opinions expressed in the U.S. Constitution were paraphrased in my classes. The answer is no, they were simply shortened.
Kerry was a gifted student and memorable, as were many of the members of her class. Whip smart and hilarious, they gave their teachers a run for their money. Politically passionate at 13, they organized a bus to the nation’s capital to participate in a march for women’s rights. Upset by a new school policy—and having just read Tinker v. Des Moines Independent Community School District, a Supreme Court ruling that defined the rights of public school students—members of her class showed up one morning wearing black armbands in protest.
Unafraid to speak truth to power, Kerry and her peers left an indelible mark on a school steeped in tradition. And as psychologists, college professors, business owners, artists, actors and physicians, they are continuing to have an impact in a number of publicly visible or private ways.
I recognized that my students lived in a city, New York, whose size alone could make one feel insignificant and powerless. If there was anything I hoped my students might take from their interaction with me it is the sense that they could, indeed, advance change—and to expect the journey to be strenuous and at times deeply discouraging.
Personally, I learned this at the knee of my mother—who lost more parts than she landed. That was the law of averages in her field. When she didn’t get a job, she didn’t mask her disappointment. By watching her I learned to accept that if work can bring joy it can also cause pain, precisely because it has meaning.
What matters to me isn’t that a former student meets with obvious success, but that they persist if they are doing something they love. That is what brings me joy.
Ironically, a month before I reached out to Kerry, my own eighth-grade teacher tagged me in a comment on Facebook upon learning that I was a candidate for the state legislature. “I was the faculty sponsor when Tiff was in 8th grade and president of the student council…,” Ernie Brodersen wrote: “She’s a born leader. I am proud of the person that she has become.”
At the time it seemed a little ridiculous that my student council advisor remembered me and was moved enough to give me a shout-out.
After this past week, it makes total sense.
Tiff Bluemle left teaching in 1994 and moved to Vermont in 1997 with her partner, Liz Shayne—whom she met while teaching. Tiff has served as executive director of Vermont Works for Women and founded Change The Story to advance gender equity through systems and culture change. She is currently a Democratic candidate for the state legislature from Burlington, Vermont and Liz serves as Headteacher of The Schoolhouse, a school serving pre-K to eighth grade. Tiff and Liz have two sons.
All views expressed in this piece are the writer’s own.
