What's the Universe Trying to Tell Me?

I've made no mystery about my feelings toward teaching and my experiences this school year. I've quit school so many times in my mind this year I've lost count, and I've questioned my ability to stay in this field. While I believe I'm a teacher at heart, the lack of funding, the chaos at my school/charter, and the lack of support have left me dried up.

Something I did not relay here months back is that our charter organization is so broke, due to mishandling of funds and our state's fiscal crisis, that we were facing a potential buyout or merger. While our organization backed out, I had already started my job search because "merger," "broke," and "buyout" spelled "possible layoffs." I considered jobs both in and outside the classroom. Anyone searching for a job right now knows how incredibly difficult it is to find something. It's spring, when many schools hire their teachers for next year, but that means only about 5-8 jobs are posted on a given week, and no district jobs, of course. Most weeks they're the same jobs I've applied for, minus the ones I'm not qualified to do. As for jobs outside education, I've looked primarily in the oh-so-profitable-non-profit-sector. While I suppose someone who was a lit major can do many things, I'm not sure what those things are. At any rate, I've applied to several jobs I think I'm qualified to do with equivalent pay rate, but no responses yet.

However, I did get a break with one of the teaching positions for which I applied. This school really piqued my interest because of their project based learning model. After a phone interview, I moved to the next round where I had to create a demo lesson. The week of the demo lesson, I visited the campus where a student took me on a tour, and while I'm cautiously skeptical these days, the students and staff seemed happy and energetic. On the day of the demo lesson, I put on my most professional attire and left the apartment in plenty of time to get to the school . . . that is had I not been rear-ended on the way there.

To make a long story short, I called the principal and explained what happened. He said to still come in, and they would work around my arrival time. I arrived about 30-45 minutes late, and after using the bathroom and giving myself a quick pep talking in the mirror, it was show time--I moved right into teaching my lesson. My adrenaline was still pumping, thankfully, and the first part of my 30 minute lesson was going well. The kids were working on a poetry activity and very engaged. The teacher and administrators in the room seemed pleased and interested.

The last ten minutes, however, felt like falling off a cliff. When it was time for a whole group discussion, my mind became a jumbled mess. Though I've taught this lesson before, I felt as if I was grasping at straws as I tried to direct the discussion. Confusion set in, then my mind literally went blank. There was nothing there. I looked at the kids, the administrators, and it took everything in me not to bolt out of that classroom. I opened my mouth and stammered an awkward "Umm" or "So," but the uncomfortable pause grew into a minute-long silence. I had to say something, so I said, "I'm sorry, I completely forgot was I was going to say." I was hoping the act of speaking would recalibrate my brain, but no such luck. I explained, "I'm sorry. I'm not myself this morning. I was in an accident on the way here--I'm not normally like this." I sloppily brought the activity to a close, and ended by explaining what I would have the kids do with this information. At least the last part was coherent.

Never in my life have I gone blank like that. I don't know if it was the adrenaline leaving my body, the trauma of the accident, or my nerves, but my ego took a hit to say the least. After the embarrassment of the classroom, I had several writing assessments and an interview with parents and board members. While I felt more positive about the way I presented myself in those elements, I cried almost the whole way home. Aside from getting a job offer, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I am a good--a great--teacher.

I suppose it goes without saying that yesterday I received an email from the principal telling me they offered the job to someone else. He did add on that out of 500 applicants, only 46 were invited to do a demo lesson. That made me feel better--that at least on paper I seem impressive enough to garner interest.

The funny thing, though, is that my intuition told me early this week to release the possibility of that job and to be open to whatever happens. This past week, our first week back at school, my 10th graders were happy to see me. Hillary and Gabby greeted me with hugs, and many of them said they missed me. While teaching three different subjects on a 4X4 model is killing me, I love those kids. My arm's length distance is shortening with them, and I'm allowing myself to hold them close.

Yesterday, Hillary and Gabby lingered at school with me. They were working on their current essay, but really we chatted. Gabby asked me about next year: "You're not coming back, are you?" That stung a little--that they sense it--and that someone else said it out loud.

I'm a horrible liar, so I was as honest as I could be: "I'll say it like this--I don't know if our school will be here next year."

"You're keeping your options open. Plan B. That's good," Gabby replied.

I wanted to change the subject. "You girls need to take AP next year.  You get college credit if you score a 3 or higher on the AP exam. It's a wonderful opportunity you should take." Then the thought of not teaching them made me sad. A regret that has chewed at me for the last several years popped up--leaving my first kids behind.

On the way home, my thoughts seeped, my mind mulled all this over. What would happen if I stayed? What would happen if I kept my second period and taught AP next year?

Why I'm A Teacher

While I'm sorry I've been away, I'm kind of not. I think I needed a month hiatus from these venting sessions so I could turn inward. A lot has happened, and I want to start here:

Right before our spring break, about two weeks ago, my 10th graders had an essay due. One of my best students, whom I'll call Gabrielle, was having a very difficult time with her essay. Not only did she have writer's block--she was lethargic, unfocussed, and behind--all things she's normally not. I kept encouraging her to push through, but by mid-week, she had her head down the entire class. I decided to let her be. I knew something was going on, and I wanted to give her time and space before I approached her. 

At the end of class, a few friends lingered, trying to get Gabby to go downstairs for lunch. I told them to go, that I would take care of her. Gabby's head remained down, but I could hear the muffled sniffles. "Gabby, what's wrong? Talk to me," I pleaded several times before she put her head up. When she said it was about the essay, I knew it wasn't. "What's really wrong?" I asked her. She turned her chair away from her table and put her head in her lab, sobbing. I kept asking her to talk to me, but she uttered no words. I got out of my chair and sat on the floor. I grabbed her hand. "Gabby, you can talk to me."

Finally, she relinquished: "My parents are getting a divorce. The court date is coming up where I have to decide who I want to live with." She described how, logically, she knows she can't fix her parents' problems, but emotionally, she believes if she's the perfect daughter and student she will bring her parents back together. She confided that only one other teacher and one other student at school know about the divorce and she prefers it that way.

I was touched by her honesty and vulnerability, particularly because she said it's hard for her to let her guard down. She wants to please people, so she puts on a happy face no matter what. While I tried to reassure and support her with my words, I ironically found it hard to let my own guard down. I felt restrained by my own emotions. So much this year has happened that has left me jaded and empty. I was connecting, but not completely, not the way Gabby deserved. 

Gabby ate her lunch with me in my room. Before she left, we hugged, and I asked her if she felt better. She said, "Surprisingly, yes. Can I get help with my essay after school?"

I told her of course, and I must have felt better too. In the same way my questions urged Gabby to open up, our conversation pushed me to a place where I hadn't been in a long time. There's this line in the film Freedom Writers that resonates with me on so many levels. Erin, the teacher, is talking to her husband, and she explains, "When I'm helping them make sense of their lives, everything about my life makes sense to me." In that conversation I had with Gabby, I needed to listen to my own words of advice, and I needed to follow Gabby's lead. I needed to open up.

Later that afternoon, Gabby came for help with Hillary in tow. Hillary, another one of my 10th graders, is also an excellent student. The two of them sat down, and something happened. I graded, they worked; I reviewed their essays, they revised. I showed them how to use dashes appropriately. They were excited and stated to weave them into their writing. Gabby, sobbing earlier, confidently took on her essay, writer's block gone. Hillary, always competing with Gabby, read paragraphs out loud, impressed with her use of vocabulary. I felt vulnerable yet at ease with them. And I felt called, urged to get back on this path.