The End of Innocence

While it seems like a lifetime ago, I remember what it was like to be a young, idealistic teacher.

Eight years ago, when I first entered the classroom as a TA, I was so passionate and determined. Determined and passionate, that is, to be right--that I really could make a difference. The more people disagreed with me, the more fuel I had to my fire. I marched into the principal's office one day--I was maybe 24 at the time--and demanded the new playground our school was building be handicapped accessible. One of my students could not access the current playground because she was in a wheelchair. I was respectful but blunt during my slide show (yes, pictures and all). While one of my bosses reprimanded me, I told her it was my job to speak up for my kids. Because I did, my student got exactly what she needed and was able to play on that playground. I loved my job, and I knew I made a difference. I felt it.

By the time I had my own classroom, I was even more determined and more convinced of my voice as a teacher. I was empowered. And I loved my kids. I mean, I really loved them. Perhaps to the point where it went a little overboard, because they were always on my mind. I talked to people about my kids constantly. It happened so naturally, because I saw them and I saw lessons in the people and places I experienced. We did the most amazing things--wrote letters to Congress, held presentations for the entire school, raised money for Darfur orphans, met Elie Wiesel and other Holocaust survivors, raised money for field trips, appeared in a documentary, held a mock presidential election . . . . And while it was so much work, and not always easy, we had so much fun. Then, quite the unexpected happened--my kids became my teachers and made a difference in my life.

And here I am now, years, lifetimes later, and sometimes I don't know how I got to where I am in my mind. Would you ever know I was that person I describe above? I miss that person; I don't know how to get her back. I'm angry, bitter, sad, hopeless, apathetic--all the qualities in teachers I at one time despised. They were those teachers, and now I am one of them.

I could go on and on in this blog about the pigeons in my ceiling, or their droppings running down my wall, or the lack of paper, books, toner, or whatever items we don't have at the moment. And while it's about those things, it's not about those things. What it's about, if I'm being honest with myself, is something far more personal. It's about my innocence dying. I no longer believe I can make a difference, because I can't. No one can in this situation. And to be angry about no toilet paper is easier than to say, "I can't make a difference."