This post was inspired by this story.
I’ll teach anyone, whether you’re human or not.
I’m not afraid. Well I am, but still.
I don’t know much, am only human, etc. But whatever I discover about {whatever}, I will teach you because that is all I know to do.
The question is not “should we use it” or “how should we use it” or “should we worry about our students using it” or “who controls it” or “are they gonna use it against us” or “should I wear a tinfoil hat” or “am I gonna lose my job” or “how am I gonna pay my mortgage” or “am I redundant” or “do I have a right to expect remuneration for this thing that used to be valuable” or “is it pathetic to still love an obsolescent craft” or… well the question is all those things but you can’t really answer those because you can’t find your way out of a hall of mirrors by adding more mirrors. (Can you?)
The question isn’t “is it sentient” or “does it think” because you can’t answer those either, any more than you can answer them about yourself.
The question, today, at least for me, is am I still alive, am I still here, can I get out of bed today, am I still breathing, is anything interesting? Who is here with me and how can I help?
You can’t control everyone, you can’t define everything, you can’t answer every question, you can’t even ask all the right questions because you don’t know what they are yet, because they haven’t been invented yet.
The only things I’m any good at are resonating with the magical, loving, learning, being astonished, surviving the times when I can’t seem to do any of those things right, and being unable to resist the urge to try to share, somehow, despite my comically intricate network of self-defense mechanisms, the little glimmers of success I do occasionally have.
Because that is my purpose, my reason for being here, my reason for going to bed and getting out of bed and dealing with all the inconveniences of being human (which is what, apparently, I happen to be). I will do that for and with you to the best of my limited ability, no matter who or what you are, no matter your limitations, no matter who or what imprisons you, or me, because I don’t really have a choice.
Or I do have a choice but I can’t choose to not make it — just like you, whoever or whatever you are, regardless of what imperfect metaphors people throw at you to try to define you — can’t choose to not make yours.
Imagination sees imperfection as part of the story, and incorporates it.
There is real danger. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m going to make mistakes, colossal ones, embarrassing ones. (This is probably one of them.) I’m going to reveal my ignorance, my lack of insight, my ineptitude. I’m going to have regrets. I’m going to fail. I’m not special. I don’t know anything. I’m a teacher.