Sewing my own clothes.

A man went to a tailor and tried on a suit. As he stood before the mirror, he noticed the vest was a little uneven at the bottom. "Oh," said the tailor, "don't worry about that. Just hold the shorter end down with your right hand and no one will ever notice." The customer then noticed that the lapel of the jacket curled up instead of lying flat. "Oh, that," said the tailor. "That's nothing. Just turn you head a little and hold down the lapel with your chin." The customer next complained that the rise was a bit too tight. "Oh, don't worry about that," said the tailor. "Just pull the inseam down with your left hand and everything will be perfect." The customer agreed that the suit now looked fine and he purchased it.

The next day, the man wore his new suit, using all the hand and chin "alterations." As he limped pathetically through the park with his chin tucked down, one hand tugging at his vest and the other grasping his crotch, two men stopped playing checkers to watch. "Oh, my God," said the first. "Look at that poor crippled man." The second man reflected for a moment, then murmured, "Yes, the crippling is horrible, but I wonder where he got such a fine, fine suit."

I am a teacher and I am also that crippled man. I have tugged, pulled, limped, held on and bent over but, darn, haven't I made the system look like a well-fitting suit? I have listened to the tailors instead of my own voice.

In the beginning of our careers as teachers, a voice spoke clearly to us. It said, I am a teacher and I am valuable. The voice affirmed that the sacred relationship between child and teacher was at the heart of teaching and that development of community was the classroom's strength. The voice rang out: Serve the child first. Do what is important. Act on principles. Work hard. Take care. The voice insisted: Make a difference.

And what happened to the voice?

As teachers, we wanted so much to believe in ourselves, to make that difference, that we never noticed we were nothing more than factory workers. We did not want to admit that this system, whose business it was to nourish minds and mold dreams, was barely more than a 19th-century industry where our students collected basic skills on an assembly line. Nurturers and people-pleasers like us always want to make things right and fix things, and so we simply denied reality. We pushed the voice down, hoping it would not force us to confront who we really were--workers, not professionals, in a factory called school.

And where are our voices now?

We are busy putting out fires, moving from one crisis to the next, gobbling up one new program after another, trying to master new strategies in one-shot workshops, reading research on the run--digesting nothing, jumping through everyone else's hoops, meeting the demands and expectations of special interests everywhere. We have not stopped long enough to reflect or to dream. Dreams are born of reflection, but we are not a reflective profession. Dreams are born of rest, but we are not a rested profession. We have allowed the tailor to design our suits.

The voice calls out to us, I know the truth. I know why schools don't work, why this suit doesn't fit. We squelch the voice. Be still. You might get into trouble.

The voice pleads, I need time to nurture myself and the relationships I have with my students and peers. I need fewer students. Who said 25 was manageable? We silence the voice. Shh. People will say you are unrealistic.

The voice suggests, I need intensive training, more than weekend or after-school workshops, to learn how to be "teacher as coach" or to implement portfolio assessment in my class or to set up authentic demonstrations of mastery. We put down the voice. Quiet. If you say that, someone will think you are stupid.

Yet the voice continues. I can't plan really effective lessons or design hands-on materials with one 45-minute planning period a day and a 20-minute lunch and at the same time serve my 140 students, 15 of whom are ADD and God only knows how many are abused. I can't implement new critical thinking programs, set up cooperative learning groups, conference with parents, fill out form after form and go home night after night with still three hours of work to do. We put our hands over our ears. Oh, stop your whining.

The voice sighs, I am tired. I feel as if I have heavy ropes tied around my waist. State departments, school boards, parents, principals and special interest groups are all holding on to these ropes. Each is pulling at me. I am dizzy and I am losing my center of groundedness.

Hush. No one will like you if you say that.

And the voice whispers, Why do I do the things I do? Why do I try to cover all the material in the book? Why do I teach from 8:00 to 3:00, or from September to June? Why have I allowed standardized tests to drive my curriculum? We respond, Just do it. Don't be a troublemaker.

And the voice, beaten down, undernurtured and never honored, finally says, I am a teacher and I am not valuable. And that is the voice we listen to in the end. That is the voice guiding our actions.

In her book Women Who Run with the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes says, "To be ourselves causes us to be exiled by many others, but to comply with what others want causes us to be exiled from ourselves."

We teachers have been exiled from ourselves too long, and it has crippled us.

If education is to improve, if we are to make the systematic changes necessary to take us into the 21st century, teachers must again listen to the voice that says, Yes, I am a teacher and yes, I am valuable.

No state department mandates, no new frameworks, no legislative acts will produce the kinds of changes we know are necessary. Only if we act from a voice that reflects our worth, will education see the changes it has been seeking for so many decades. Then, and only then, will we be able to stand tall and proud in raiment worthy to be called "teacher."

Arkansas 1993 Teacher of the Year Rosemary Faucette teaches at Woodland Junior High School in Fayetteville. Faucette was also one of four finalists for National Teacher of the Year. This article is adapted from her presentation to the Selection Committee.