author, teacher, Star Wars fan, etc.

A few months ago, we went to see my husband’s high school production of The Wizard of Oz, to support the musical program he was once part of. (Readers who know Loui, he played the Beast in Beauty and the Beast—but only when he was the Beast, not the human. Isn’t that hilarious and adorable and perfect?)

 We chatted with a few people he hadn’t seen in a while, like his teachers and parents of friends. One of his musical teachers asked what we both do. Loui answered that he’s an environmental educator and that I work in communications and teach a journalism class at UK.

“So you’re both teachers!” she said. “How about that!”

It struck me in the moment because I hadn’t thought of myself as a teacher. I don’t know if it’s because I was only a few months into teaching or because my title is technically “part-time instructor,” but I hadn’t officially put that label on myself.

Then I remembered what shows up next to my name every time I send an announcement to my students in Canvas, the learning management system used by UK. It says: “Author | Teacher.”

It just means that I’m the author of that particular announcement, and it says “Teacher” to differentiate from the users labeled “Students,” but still, those are nice descriptors to have next to my name.

Our final day of class was this past Wednesday, so other than a lot of grading that I need to do, our semester is over. As my first class a UK instructor comes to an end, I’ve been reflecting on how grateful I am for this opportunity.

Since I got my MFA in 2023, and for many years before that, I’ve been hoping to teach at the college level. Since I returned to work at UK last year, I’ve been especially excited at the possibility of teaching at my alma mater.

Truthfully, I expected to eventually beg for the opportunity, to convince someone to give me a chance. Imagine how humbled and honored I was when one of my own teachers and mentors asked me back in September if I was interested in teaching journalism. My immediate answer was yes—and I’m very excited to continue teaching this fall.

Alice Allison spent the summer after earning her teaching certificate from the Kentucky Normal and Industrial Institute applying for teaching jobs—excitedly, at first. But her excitement waned and frustration grew as she applied to teach in more and more Kentucky counties.

“The results were practically the same everywhere—too young (eighteen), no experience, no vacancies,” Alice wrote.

Just before the start of the school year, tired of the gloom she’d felt all summer, she decided “to start life anew” and have a little fun.

“The local sandlotters were playing in their final game of the season, and I was trying my best to whoop up a victor in a sun-drenched cow pasture with most of the town’s sports fans, shouting as though the loudest cheering section would clinch the game,” she wrote.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm—her brother, Richard, saying, “We’re going home.”

She followed her brother, whom she regarded as “a killjoy,” into his Model T Ford, but as they traveled down the road, she finally snapped.

“Why did you drag me from the baseball game just as I was beginning to have fun? Have I not suffered enough anguish this summer?” she demanded.

Richard told Alice that their mother had sent him. “She said you must get ready for your new job tomorrow.”

“What job?” Alice said, scared her mother had hired her out as a cook or maid.

“Your school-teaching job,” Richard responded.

Alice suspected that her brother was playing a joke on her. But she really did have a job, at Mount Pisgah in Todd County—a one-room country school for Black students. The longtime teacher had died, leaving a last-minute opening. The school administrator looked through the applications he had on hand and thought Alice’s “showed the best qualifications.” Though the Allison family had no phone, he eventually reached Alice’s parents and told them about the job.

“The feeling that possessed me at that moment I heard the news is indescribable,” Alice wrote. “I would never feel the same sense of accomplishment, joy, and gratitude again until some thirty years later, when I entered the White House as an accredited news correspondent.”

This solidified something her mother often said, which Alice would live by for the rest of her life: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Put another way, in honor of the holiday: “Do or do not. There is no try.”