From Clinic to Classroom

Most of us do not welcome predawn phone calls. That certainly was the case with me during my 20 years as a neurologist. There usually was another physician on the other end of the line requesting my expertise in treating a patient critically ill with a stroke, unremitting convulsions, acute encephalitis or a multitude of other catastrophes.

Early last year, however, something changed. I would awaken before sunrise and look at the silent telephone. If there was a call, I’d reach it before the second ring. Not because every second could count in a neurological emergency, but because it might be Sue or Sharon calling to see if I’d like to . . . substitute teach.

Now, about 18 months later, I have not completely traded in my stethoscope for a seating chart. But I have begun the transformation from physician to full-time elementary school teacher.

I did not deliberately set out to discover a new career. I was not in any midlife crisis. It was simply a matter of one thing leading to another after I found myself with several free days a month despite my medical commitments and the demands of caring for and chauffeuring my 10-year-old daughter.

During her first two elementary school years, I volunteered along with many other parents as a weekly classroom helper. Some teachers had me grade papers or set up supplies for the weekly art projects. Others saw my enthusiasm for working with the children and let me direct reading and math groups, help young creative writers find their muses or assist budding scientists in setting up experiments.

Then the state’s class-size reduction program created more classes--and a need for more teachers. I obtained a credential to be an emergency substitute.

By then, I was following my heart. Why, I wondered, was it more exhilarating to teach a child the parts of the brain than to use that knowledge to diagnose and treat a patient? Surely, my expertise was critical as a neurologist. But when I shared it with the children, magic happened. I fell in sync with their natural curiosity and creativity.

I realized that my scientific curiosity, at least outside of my area of specialization, had become dormant. It was rekindled by the children’s probing questions.

Each time I would leave a school after a day in class, I began to doubt one of the principles of physical science I had memorized in my premed studies: how the laws of gravity precluded spontaneous levitation. Now it seemed as if I was floating from the classroom to my car, my feet never touching the ground.

*

It had been years since I had that feeling about medicine. So much had changed in the 20 years since I had graduated from UCLA Medical School.

Gone were the days when I could spend two hours getting to know a new patient as a person. The constraints put on me by insurance and government restrictions required that I see more in less time. Neurological diseases are often complex, unpredictable--and progressive. I needed time to explain the potential benefits and the limitations of medications, surgery or therapy. This time was no longer available. I had enjoyed collaborating with my patients, hearing their concerns and considering their unique situations. But those opportunities were fading, replaced by hurried answers and minimal collaboration.

The decision to change careers seemed so right to me. Yet so unreasonable and impractical, as well.

How could I cut my salary to 20% of what I had been earning and not be unfair to my husband and family? What right did I have to another University of California-funded graduate education? How could I take a spot sought by students half my age who were finishing college and seeking admission to teaching programs that would place them in careers they could continue for four decades?

I started my soul-searching by talking for hours with Paul, my best friend and husband of 28 years. We had met in college and attended medical school and residencies as husband and wife. We had shared a private neurology practice in Santa Barbara. When we sold our practice to devote time to Alani, our new--and second--daughter whom we adopted as an infant from Korea in 1988, the plan was for us to alternate being the working parent and the at-home parent. This rotation worked well for the first 10 years, with both of us enjoying our time as the full-time parent. But now it was Paul’s turn to cut back again--and my turn to do full-time neurology.

On the plus side, our oldest daughter was off at college. And Alani was growing up herself and was “homework independent,” able to do it on her own. In addition, my mother, Norma, moved to Santa Barbara this year and had generously taken over driving her to after-school activities, friends’ houses and cultural events.

Paul helped me realize that Alani would not suffer if I was not with her every day after school. It was harder for me to accept his offer to assume complete financial responsibility for our family.

We had already made the lifestyle changes to enable us to live on a single income during our years of alternating working. If I became a teacher, though, Paul would not be able to take his time off. He would need to carry on full time for years.

Still, he insisted that I follow my dream.

But what about my sense of identity? Being a physician carries a status that is unfortunately not extended to elementary school teachers. Would I regret that loss?

Of course, I did not plan to leave my “old self” behind. My knowledge, experiences and strengths as a physician could be assets in the classroom.

*

Elementary school is a critical time in the development of feelings about science. I hope to communicate the essence and importance of science by dramatically connecting it to life and our planet.

It is well-documented that American students have not scored competitively against their peers in other nations in science testing. And more than 80% of elementary school teachers are women--women whom society and their own teachers have conditioned to dislike science or to feel that they cannot do it. It is not surprising, then, that the majority of these teachers spend less than two hours a week instructing in science.

The gender gap in science and math has been attributed to peer pressure to conform to sex-role expectations in career choice, limited contact with female role models and unconscious teacher bias. As a physician working as a teacher, I hope to break that cycle.

Even as a parent helper in the classroom, I asked the children and teachers to call me Dr. Willis, not Ms. or Mrs. My purpose was to raise their awareness about women scientists and physicians. It seemed to work. Although the students whose teachers I substituted for might not remember my last name, they would frequently call across the playground, “Hi, lady brain doctor. I remember what you taught me about the frontal lobe. Look, it’s under here! Right?”

Whenever I substitute taught, I brought a model of the brain with me. No matter what the grade level, from kindergarten to sixth, I would use it to stimulate a science exploration. I would not mention the brain but someone always asked about it. More often than not, the kids would cluster around it, giddy with questions and exclamations ranging from “Yucky!” to “Man, that is so cool!”

I would answer some questions and promise that, when the morning’s work was completed, I would help them all become junior neurologists.

Later, I’d ask if they could figure out what purpose it might serve for the brain to be so wrinkled. After we discussed their answers, I’d give each child a piece of scrap paper and ask them to make it as small as they could. Some would fold it, others would crumple, but most would see how it could fit into a smaller space. We would then discover together that one possible purpose of the folded brain is to pack more of it into the hard protective skull.

Experiences like those have shaped what kind of teacher I hope to be. My ideal would be a democratic classroom where students’ passions and concerns become the focus of explorations. I would love to start with some artifact a child might bring in and use the students’ questions as impetus to take off on long-range investigations incorporating such academic disciplines as mathematics, science, project-directed reading, research techniques, computer use, art and history.

Unless math and scientific disciplines are seen as tools the student wants to master in order to achieve a goal, the studies risk seeming bothersome or trivial.

*

I once substituted for a class just before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. As usual I had the brain. During a discussion of similarities and differences the children had with Dr. King, I asked them what color they thought his brain was. Most said black or brown. Not one of the children--who in this class were white, Asian and Latino--suggested that his brain would have been the same beige-pink as the model, which they knew was the color of their brains. It was a powerful discovery for them to see that color is truly only skin deep.

I know it sounds like trendy “eduspeak” to talk about multiculturalism, but what can you say after an episode like that? So in addition to providing examples that show similarities among all human beings, I also hope to facilitate the type of “inclusive” education where the differences that children bring to the classroom are respected and appreciated. I want my classroom to reflect the students’ range of heritage, not only with respect to holidays, food and dress, but also with regard to heroes, legends, arts and philosophies.

I imagine that every teacher in training harbors dreams of how he or she will bring creativity to the classroom and have an impact on the direction of education. My experiences during the first weeks of my program at UC Santa Barbara have shown me that my being a physician will carry some clout if I strive to do that.

One classmate, Dan, proudly told his mother how people were entering education after other successful careers, even as a neurologist. Another classmate, Michelle, described her triumph when her brother, a medical student at UC Davis, boasted about the greater importance of his graduate education. “Yes, one of my classmates went to medical school,” she retorted, “but now. . . .” Yet another classmate, Juliet, gave me a high five and offered a daunting proclamation: “You’ll bring more status to the profession of teaching.”

I understand that my MD degree, and the fact that I have chosen to relinquish its financial rewards, may give me increased credibility with school boards and governmental agencies. My years as a successful businesswoman (part of private practice is running one’s own business) will extend my comfort zone beyond the classroom to the community, where I hope to have an impact. Voters considering school financing may even give thought to the fact that if a physician becomes a classroom teacher, their own financial investment in a school bond vote is all the more appropriate.

Perhaps I can influence how schools can be innovative to remain relevant to our evolving society, technological advancements and growing global interconnectedness.

Financial and career independence also makes me less vulnerable than most of my colleagues if I take risks. I will enter a school as a closely supervised “student teacher” in September, full of the spirit of cooperation and compromise--and hope to carry that same attitude with me when I get “my own” class in September 1999. But I will always know that I can, if necessary, take a stand that is contrary to my principal or superintendent, even if it puts my job at risk: I will remain licensed and fully current in my medical specialty. I can return to practice at any time.

*

So here I am babbling about the future when I’m just one semester into the master’s in education program and still staggering from changes that have taken place in universities since I last was a student. The price of books was my first shock--soft-covered texts cost over $40. Then there were the photocopied articles we had to purchase from an off-campus copy shop at prices up to $36. Back in my student days, teachers simply handed out copies of articles they assigned.

My greatest confusion occurred when a professor told the class to bring “scantrons” to the final exam. I had no idea what she was talking about, but the others seemed to. They asked questions like “What size?” and “Which color?” I later found out that these are the answer sheets for filling in boxes or bubbles on multiple-choice tests.

My classmates are a diverse group, fewer than half of them just out of college. Of the 30 or so students I have met, six or seven have children. Two even have daughters the same age as Alani. What I love about my new colleagues are qualities I don’t see in my comrades in medicine--a sense of optimism, unpretentiousness, belief in the importance of what they will do, political and community activism, and a pace of living that includes time for sitting down for coffee and conversation.

My professors so far have also reflected optimism and commitment. They provide me with insight while also demonstrating methods of teaching that work best to engage the class and stimulate us to reflect on our prejudices.

Much of our classwork is collaborative and interactive. The reading materials provide different philosophies and perspectives for critical thinking rather than how-to-teach manuals.

The professors encourage me to believe that I can be important and effect change at a time in our educational history when change is accelerating. Marianne D’Emidio-Caston, who teaches the class in social foundations of education, asked us the ponder the value of public school education. I wrote that, “As an educator one of my goals will be to raise public awareness to understand the enormous value of supporting excellence in public education. Just because the schools are not all superior now, it does not mean that it is an unobtainable goal.”

Dr. D’Emidio-Caston, who always writes long responses to our papers, did not belittle my idealism. She wrote, “I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.”