AMCAS personal statement
This is the essay I submitted with my medical school application in October, 2004:
A sign in the teacher's lounge read, "You can't scare me. I teach public school!" I was scared. I wrung my hands and shifted in front of the classroom. My new tenth-grade students eyed me skeptically as they conversed loudly about the events of the summer. I timidly introduced myself and began addressing what they would be studying over the course of the year.
I droned on for several minutes before a student asked, "Is this your first year teaching?"
"Um, yes . . ."
"Yeah, I can tell," he smirked. "This class is gonna be a joke."
A few students snickered as I sheepishly continued delivering my speech. They became bolder as my lecture continued. By the end of the period, they were throwing wads of paper at each other and talking over me.
Why was I failing?! I had earned a degree from Georgia Tech in the subject I was teaching, and I had performed laboratory research for over a year—I figured I knew more about biology than most science teachers. Teaching was supposed to be an easy interim job. Yet as I stood in front of my classes, it became obvious that there was a human side to my endeavor that a lab or a lecture hall could not unearth. Unlike me, my students came from low-income neighborhoods and had little interest in college. I had not experienced the poverty they faced; how could I reach them? From this humbling initiation, I spent the remainder of the year learning the subtle lessons necessary to gain their trust. Although arduous, the process taught me lessons in perseverance and responsibility.
By learning how to gain the respect and trust of my students, I dismantled the greatest barrier between us. In stark contrast to my college experiences, there was no inherent respect or trust between student and teacher in my classroom. My students' grades reflected this unhealthy environment: I presented the same material again and again, but saw no improvement in test scores. Without the trust of my students, academic progress was impossible. Finally, a breakthrough came in October. I assigned morning detention to Tamara, a student who habitually caused disruptions in class. The next morning, she arrived fifteen minutes late. Red-faced with anger, I threatened to make her come back another day. As tears formed in the corners of her eyes, she explained that she had been kicked out of her mom's house the previous day and was now living over an hour away in the cab of her dad's truck. As I listened, my anger was quickly replaced by respect for her hardships. My empathy changed our relationship: we respected each other. I never had a problem from her again, and she pulled her C average up to a B plus. I now realize the importance of knowing my students personally. This personal relationship is necessary for a professional relationship.
Although I was rewarded for the time I invested in my students, the process was initially discouraging. Teaching is not the gratifying world of instant rewards to which I was accustomed. As a former student, I received instant feedback on my work: I turned in a project, and by the next week I had my grade. But during the first months of school, I heard few words of encouragement. Was I making a difference to my students? After a year I finally got the "grade" I wanted: my students performed admirably on the standardized End-Of-Course Test. But my gratification comes not from test scores; it comes from knowing that I have made an impact upon a handful of children who, like Tamara, did not have very many people on their side.
My experiences over the past year have fostered a maturity that cannot be gained in the traditional college setting. I have a solemn obligation to my students to ensure that when they leave my class, they are prepared for what they will face next. When I make mistakes, they affect not only me but over a hundred children who trust me. The time spent planning for my classes directly affects the success of my lessons, which in turn directly affects my pupils' mastery of the material. Although still generally light-hearted, my carefree undergraduate attitude has been replaced by one of responsibility and commitment.
At the beginning of August this year, I again stood in front of a new class of tenth-graders. It was hard to imagine that I found this experience intimidating only a year ago. As my new students chatted lightly about the events of the summer, I realized that the "hostility" I had perceived last year was actually apprehension—my students wanted to know that I cared about them and that I had high expectations of them. Before starting, I went around the room and introduced myself to each student. After a brief personal introduction, I gave my students their first assignment: to tell me about themselves and their families. My overt interest in my students preceded everything, which laid the foundation for the mutual respect necessary for us to work together. I still have a passion for the knowledge and techniques that entail science; however, I now have the skills necessary to apply that knowledge in a human setting.