It’s MFA thesis season here at Ohio State University, which means I have eight manuscripts to read. If it sounds like a lot of reading, it’s because it is. I spent the last two days reading a student’s very good novel, and now I feel like I need a rest—well, at least my eyes could benefit from a break. Reading on a screen, as we all do these days, often leaves me, as it did yesterday, with an ocular migraine. I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish I could spend the next two weeks doing nothing but reading, but I life goes on. I have my classes to teach and meetings to attend and a new book of my own to promote. One might think I’m whining, but really I’m not. I’m just stating the facts of my professional life right now. I know how blessed I am to still be doing what I love.

So, what’s the deal, you might ask, and I would tell you most people outside academia have no idea what it takes to do what teachers do year after year. Do I teach in the summer? No, unless you count writers’ conferences where I give workshops. How many classes do I teach during the regular school year? Four. Two each semester. How many days of the week do I teach? Two. Please note each class is three hours in length, and I’m preparing commentary on 4-6 manuscripts each week. Add to that the letters of recommendation I write, the manuscripts I review for publishers, the tenure and promotion reviews I do for candidates at other universities, the books I blurb, the peer reviews I do for colleagues, the job search committees on which I serve, the one-on-one meetings I have with my students, the book conversations I facilitate, this weekly blog post. . . well, you get the idea; it makes for a very busy schedule. I’m thankful for almost all of it.

I’ve given forty-three years of my life to this profession, and like I said, I’ve been fortunate to do what I always dreamed of doing. Above all, I’ve given forty-three years to the development of writers, many of whom have gone on to teaching and writing careers of their own. And so it will be for the students whose work I’m reading now. I cherish the small role I play in whatever waits for them in the future.

These days, when higher education is under fire, I want people to know what it takes to dedicate one’s life to teaching. It often means sacrificing my time for the benefit of my students. Sometimes, like in thesis season, I find myself having to disappoint family and friends because the clock is ticking, and I have a task I must complete. Not only do I have these eight manuscripts to read, but I intend to read them thoughtfully so I can offer helpful commentary.

I know a day will eventually come when I’ll no longer have the privilege to call myself a teacher. At that time, I’ll hope I made a difference in my students’ lives. I’ll hope something I said mattered to them and to their writing and to their living. To those who want to dictate what I can and can’t teach, or how diverse our academic community can be, or several other mandates intended to support a particular political agenda, I ask you to consider the fact that lives are being made possible in our classrooms. Doors and minds and hearts are opening. Do you really want teachers to close them?