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A recent news segment offers a great lesson in privilege and the dangerous social function of humor based on identity.

The election is tomorrow! Are you discussing voter registration and turnout with your students?

I decided not to leave a phone message. As my mind began racing through what I wanted to say in an email instead, I thought about my dual roles in school. As a teacher for more than 20 years, I have confidence that schools and teachers are there to help, support and build a relationship with parents. But as a parent, faced with having to speak to my child’s teacher, I froze.

A recent issue of Teaching Tolerance magazine addressed two subjects that I see converging in news stories from around the country – intolerant attitudes toward students who are atheist and teachers using their positions to bully students.

I hear it now and then. It invariably comes after a long day in an elementary school classroom, a day that seems like a year. "If I didn't have [student’s name], I could teach my class!" You know the children who fill in the blank. They're the ones who stand when you ask them to sit, talk when you ask for silence and play when you need them to work. Marvin is one of those children. He is 9 years old.

This just in: Men make up a small fraction of early childhood and elementary school teachers. And for children younger than 6, having a male teacher is a rarity. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, just 2.3 percent of preschool and kindergarten teachers are men.

Educators at this school find that their book club helps build the teacher community and provides a vehicle for support when needed.

I recently confronted my prejudices. After teaching for many years in a low-income, high-violence area of Oakland, Calif., I decided to do some private tutoring. I sought to avoid the stress of politics in the district and the uncertainty of having a new principal every year for over eight years. Although I had outlasted all of the teachers I had started working with, I felt guilty because this was the population I wanted to serve.

Like many of us, I sometimes overuse the word “need.” I have a tendency to say that I need the new iPhone or I need a pedicure, even though those are clearly things that I want, rather than need. My greatest lesson on distinguishing between a want and a need came with my first-grade class when I was a new teacher. Volunteers from the business community came to teach for a day through the Junior Achievement program. As a new teacher, I was overwhelmed and relieved not to be responsible for lesson plans for the day. I was nervous, however, about how an idealistic businessperson would deal with 20 extremely needy first-graders living in one of the most violent parts of Oakland, Calif.

My nana is laughing as she tells me one of her favorite childhood stories. As her cheeks lift into a smile, I can see the teenager who boldly told her teacher that threats to visit Nana’s parents about her behavior are ineffective. “You see,” she said, “they don’t speak any English.”