Dear journal,
Whenever I see that plaque hanging on my wall, I feel like a fraud.
It’s a Golden Eagle Award — a recognition meant to validate my work as a teacher. In 2012, I was told I’d been chosen as my campus’s Teacher of the Year. I should have felt proud — I should have felt seen. After all, it had been just two years since I’d been non-renewed by the dame district, an experience that shattered my confidence and made me question whether I had any business being in education at all. This award should have been proof that I had rebuilt myself, that I had clawed my way back.
But instead of pride, I felt something closer to shame.
I hadn’t earned it — not really. My campus was small, and by that year, everyone else had already won the award. The rules stated no one could win it twice, and since no new staff had been added, I was the only eligible name. The decision wasn’t based on merit or impact — it was default. A technicality.
I remember standing there that day, plaque in hand, while my colleague, Susan, shook my hand and smiled warmly. I smiled back, but it felt forced — too wide, too brittle. The applause from my peers felt polite but brief, like they knew what I knew: I wasn’t standing there because of my skill or my dedication. I was standing there because there was no one else.
And yet, there I was, captured in that photograph — shaking hands, holding the plaque, and feeling like a fraud.
That plaque still hangs on my wall, and most days I don’t notice it. But every now and then, it catches my eye — a quiet reminder that I don’t belong. Today was one of those days. An email arrived announcing this year’s award winners, and I felt that same familiar pang — that uneasy feeling that I hadn’t really earned my place.
That feeling isn’t new to me. If I’m honest, it’s been there for most of my career.
As an alternative education teacher, I’ve heard it more than once — that I’m not a “real teacher.” Sometimes it’s been whispered in passing, other times said outright to my face. And sometimes — on the hardest days — I’ve believed it.
I’ve believed it when my students have stormed out of the room or refused to engage. I’ve believed it when my program, painstakingly prepared, fell flat in a classroom that felt more like a revolving door than a learning space. I’ve believed it when my job has felt less like teaching and more like putting out fires — talking a student down from a meltdown, negotiating a conflict, or convincing a young adult that school is still worth it.
There’s no clear metric for what I do. No standardized test score that measures whether a student who’s been expelled five times can finally trust an adult again. No data point that proves I helped a student believe he was capable of earning his diploma. Because the victories in my classroom are quieter, harder to measure — and often invisible to anyone who isn’t there to see them.
Meanwhile, I’ve watched my mother — a remarkable special education teacher — and my brother — a gifted English teacher — win real Teacher of the Year awards. Not by default, but through undeniable skill, dedication, and respect from their peers. They are excellent teachers. I’ve seen my mother work tirelessly with students that no one else could reach, and I’ve witnessed my brother turn literature into something alive, something that made students feel seen and heard. They earned their awards. They deserved them.
And that’s why, for so long, I’ve believed that I haven’t.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand: fraudulence isn’t what defines me — persistence does.
I found a job after I was non-renewed in the same district when leaving would have been easier. I stayed when I felt like a failure. I stayed when I doubted my own purpose, when I questioned whether the work I was doing even mattered. I stayed when my students resisted, when they cursed me out or refused to believe I cared about them. I didn’t stay because I believed I was a great teacher — I stayed because I believed my students deserved one and I hoped I had it in me to become one.
That’s what that plaque can’t tell you. It doesn’t reflect the mornings I dragged myself to work after sleepless nights, second-guessing whether I belonged there at all. It doesn’t capture the conversations I’ve had with students who were on the edge of walking away from school — or life itself — and somehow, in those moments, believed me enough to stay, to come back, and to finish.
It doesn’t tell the story of the student who, after years of struggle, rang the graduation bell — my school’s symbol for finishing what they started — because I refused to give up on them when everyone else already had.
I’ve come to realize that while I may never feel like I earned that plaque, I’ve earned something else — something more important. I’ve earned the trust of students who didn’t believe in themselves. I’ve earned the right to stand alongside my mother and brother — not because I’ve won the same awards they have, but because I’ve done the same thing they’ve done: I’ve kept showing up even when it felt hopeless.
Because teaching isn’t about perfection — it’s about presence. It’s about coming back day after day, even when you doubt yourself. Even when you don’t feel good enough. Even when you believe you’re failing.
I’ll probably always feel like a fraud when I look at that plaque. But maybe that’s okay.
Because I’ve learned that persistence — however quiet, however uncertain — is no less real than any award I’ll ever receive. And maybe, just maybe, persistence is what makes a “real teacher” after all.
Always,
Dave