Found

Last night I had a very profound experience and the strangest dream. I had to share both here. Neither has anything to do with the classroom, or maybe they do. You be the judge.

Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.

One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.

For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.

Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.

I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.

Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.

A Year in Review

I'm officially on winter break, and I'm oh-so relieved! The weeks leading up to this break often seem the longest, and I could equate the feeling with walking through Jell-O after several alcoholic beverages.

Sunday morning I flew to my hometown in the Midwest, and my mind is all over the place. The time difference and the jet lag are perhaps to blame, but more than that I'm reflecting on this year--what it was and what it wasn't.

This past year was about surviving. Let me rephrase: All of last school year was about surviving. I dodged two rounds of layoffs.

This past year was about fighting back. A year and three days ago, my car was damaged by an angry student. That was the last straw for me, and the moment I became my own advocate. In a way, this is an illustration of skewed values. I will allow my soul to be damaged, but not my car, yet this fight to repair my car allowed me to reclaim some of myself. It took hundreds of emails and nine months, but this is a victory--maybe the only victory--I won.   

This past year was about moments of thriving. Becoming an AP teacher allowed me to feel glimmers of my true teacher self--glimmers of meaningful, profound interactions. I've watched a small group of students push themselves and emerge as true intellectuals.

This year--or at least the last half of this year--was not about community. After my pre-merger school disbanded, the community I had with my fellow teachers dissolved with my former school. I've felt isolated this year, even in my own classroom.

This year was not about teaching. So much of my time is spent disciplining and redirecting, that the amount I really spend teaching is at such a minimal. This is true even in my AP class. I hate this feeling because it renders me purposeless. If I'm not teaching, why am I there?  

This year was not about excelling. Between the discipline issues and the general insanity of our school (no internet for three weeks, no paper, no books, etc.), an okay, mundane, status quo day is good enough. While complacency will save me mental and emotional energy, this is not enough.


Yesterday I went to the grocery store to get a few items, and I was thrown by what I saw. A man came through the aisle I was in with a broom and dust pan. As he walked past me, he spotted one coffee bean. One. Rather than leave it, he swept it up. That's pride. That's respect. For him and for his job. I want to feel that, and I want the kids to feel that. But how? 

The Why is Always the Hardest Part

The Privilege (and Pain) of Being 30-Something

November proved to be a very busy month. I'm still waging my daily battles--teaching, grading, planning, disciplining--and on top of that, my juniors from last year are filling out college applications. For me, that meant letters of recommendation. Then, just like that, it was Thanksgiving break.

The older I get, the faster time goes. A summer, a month, even a work week flies by. Sometimes that's a good thing, but sometimes I wonder where it all goes. I'm a busy person, and I suppose I like it that way, but I've reached this place where I'm continually asking myself, What am I doing? More recently, I'm asking Why? and How do I change that?

I'm lucky to live in a city that has beautiful and diverse natural surroundings, so over break, I took several hikes. Being in a place that is such a contrast to my daily environment--particularly a place that is peaceful and allows me to tap into my spiritual side--helps me put my thoughts in perspective.

And this is what I've concluded: I'm not the person I want to be. I don't mean in the sense that I think I'm a horrible person, but in the sense that I'm taking stock of my life and evaluating who I am and who I want to be. I guess this is something that comes with age, because the gift of being 30-something is that I'm not 20-something anymore. 30-something offers a type of clarity and pulls away the delusion of 20-something. In the past few years, I've found humility, or humility has found me. I know I don't know. I want more meaning behind what I do. I want to be more present--not just for others, but for myself. I want my actions to line up with the person I want to be. I want to serve what makes my soul happy.

The burden of being 30-something is that I don't know yet how to make that happen. My friends who are in their 40s have found something I haven't or know something I don't. They are at peace with themselves in a way that translates in all they do. They are comfortable in their own skin. They are happy in a way that I've not known--like there's no need to chase after something or achieve another goal because what they have, what they are is enough.

In the past, I've used my career as a way to compensate for my inadequacies or my misgivings. I can't do that anymore. With the way the past year and a half has gone, I can just add my career to the stack of insecurities. Now I am left with what I am, and what I am is feeling. Feeling things that make me uncomfortable and confused but are begging me to listen.

The Personal-ness of Teaching

Something else your teacher education programs will never tell you is how personal your work can become. I've been doing a lot of thinking in the past two weeks about my purpose--in and outside the classroom. In my last post, I discussed my conscious decision to stay at my school despite all that went on last year, and while much of that decision had to do with my kids and my AP class, I think something greater than that is at work.

Our first quarter just ended, and on Monday all teachers had to report to school for a meeting with both our principals while the students had the day off. (My school has two principals--my principal from last year's pre-merger school and the principal who has directed my post-merger school for the past two years.) I thought this would be a time for us to strategize and collaborate, but instead our meeting served as a time and place for one of our principals to unload her frustration and disappointment. She's unhappy with the number of Fs the students have, and in her opinion, if we have so many Fs, the teachers did not teach. If these numbers do not change, we will find ourselves out of a job. I was fuming to put it mildly. How dare she threaten us with our jobs after all that happened last year? Each day we wonder about another layoff or another merger, and the person who is supposed to be one of our leaders is hanging our livelihood over our heads? After a tense minute of silence, she passed out a report to each teacher which detailed the number of students with each letter grade, then asked, "So no one has anything to say?!" I didn't take that as a rhetorical question, and muttered, "I'm keeping my mouth shut."

For a moment I wanted to cry. I thought we were all in this together. Apparently not. Then I looked at the report. There wasn't anything on there I didn't know. I look at my grade book each day. I know 60% of my students have Fs. My mind flashed to an interaction I had with a student about two weeks before. This student from one of my American Lit classes came to talk to me about something during lunch. I was sitting at my desk which is by my window where I have several pictures and my framed "Teacher of the Year" certificate. The student glanced at the certificate and asked, as if in disbelief, "Teacher of the year?" I nodded, and her face asked, 'How could you possibly deserve this award? You haven't taught us anything.' As I emerged from my reverie, our principal reiterated that if this many students are failing, she doesn't care what we were doing--we weren't teaching. Plain and simple. The tears pooled and were on the brink of running down my cheek. She and my student must be right.

My principal from last year arrived about ten minutes into this lecture, and I've never been so happy to see her in my life. While I've criticized her neutrality in the past, it's this very quality that deescalated the heat in our meeting. I don't know exactly what she said, but she was her usual diplomatic self and her words temporarily bandaged my open wounds. However, that didn't stop me from crying on the way home from work on Monday or making the rest of this week a wash. Tuesday I attempted to have a reflective conversation with the kids about quarter one, and while it worked in AP, it fell apart in my American Lit classes. I've often had these conversations with kids, so I know how to scaffold them--journal, then small group, then large group. It just didn't work. Thursday, most of my AP kids hadn't read, so I sat down at my desk and graded, not teaching at all. Over and over again I've asked myself out loud and in my mind--What am I doing? Hillary says I can't leave our school or her until she graduates, but honestly, What am I doing?

Oprah Winfrey, in her series Master Class, talks about authentic power. It's a power that comes from within--when one's personality serves one's soul--and because it comes from within, no external factor can shake it or tear it down. My power is all external, and I know that because I'm rendered powerless, particularly with my American Lit classes. They are, in many ways, my worst fear. They are failing and unresponsive and apathetic. They don't like me, and they don't like my class. While in one breath my AP students reinforce the idea of who I believe I am, my American Lit students shatter it. When I look at their vacant faces, I know I'm a bad teacher. This dynamic reminds me of my dysfunctional childhood because my mind always wavered between two messages--my own, which said I was a good person, or my stepfather's, who said I wasn't. Each day I tried to build myself up, but his towering voice and stature always won. But I'm not a scared eleven-year-old anymore. I can't change those kids, so I have to change myself; I'm just not sure how. Maybe that's why I'm still here--to stare down this shadow once and for all.

A Full Circle Moment

There are so many things I don't understand about this year. I find myself on a sort of emotional roller coaster, but it's a very different one from last school year.

A few weeks ago, I had a happy hour reunion with work wife. Together we walked down memory lane, and we both described a similar feeling--a longing for what was. None of this makes sense. I suppose one can romanticize the past because it's in the past. There is a distance. It takes no effort to remember the good and fun, but that's not the case when it comes to remembering the pain and the struggle. And maybe that's what we were looking for when remembering--closure with no effort--but when my work wife and I echoed the same statement simultaneously--"It was so wrong that it was right"--I paused.

Last year I pondered why I work in the environment I do. I questioned if I chose it because it so echoes my own circumstances growing up: chaotic, disorganized, passive/aggressive, and manipulative. Of course I could not have known all that was to come, but the choices we make aren't so accidental. My work wife comes from a similar background, and we both admitted to seeking out what is familiar. The children who attend our school, while a different race, are not so unlike us. We know their families without meeting them, and we know our kids' secrets without them telling us. Our schools operate like our dysfunctional families, and while we loathe them, we need them, but we still find a way to work around them. At the end of the day, we want ourselves and our kids to thrive, so we do all we can to make that happen. I think it takes a certain type of person to function in this environment, and I suppose that's why we feel this tug. I don't know if it's sick, or if it's normal, but I'm trying to embrace the fact that this year I'm not the victim--this is where I've chosen to be.

A big part of what's made this year so bearable is my kids. My AP class has become my pride and joy. They have a huge essay due on Monday, so several of them stayed this past week after school to work on it. Being surrounded by them--their thoughts, their curiosity, their spirit--felt like this is where I need to be. Watching them give some of my American Lit students--who stayed after school to retake a grammar exam--a speech on how they need to pick up their grades and take advantage of tutoring gave me this surge like what a mother must feel when she watches her child do something for the first time.

Yesterday Gabby and Hillary stayed after to work on their essays. Actually, Hillary stays late everyday. It's routine now that she comes to my class at the end of the day. Sometimes we read together, sometimes we work on an essay, sometimes she works on other homework, or sometimes she helps me grade. Her presence reminds me of my purpose. When I say a word like "dichotomy" or "periphery," she wants to know what it means and how to use it. She'll have me look at her essay ten times over because she's such a perfectionist and wants to get it right.  Hillary is so driven, so smart, so full of potential, and while I love those AP kids, Hillary has a special place in my heart. I want all my kids to get a 4 or 5 on the AP exam, but I especially want it for her. I think sometimes we, as teachers, encounter kids who remind us of ourselves, or remind us of who we wanted to be at that age. Sometimes we encounter kids with whom we click for whatever reason. Hillary is all of the above.

So yesterday, Gabby and Hillary stayed after school so they could get feedback on their essay, and my mind went right back to last year. Once again it was a Friday and everyone was gone but us, and once again we were working on essays. Last year, that was the moment I decided--though I didn't know it then--that I wanted to stay and that I wanted to teach them AP. I laughed to myself because the universe is so strange--that a simple thought could really manifest and become reality. I looked at my girls, and unlike last year, they really were working on their essays. They were so intense in their thoughts, trying to get the right word or phrase. They had matured in just a matter of months. Contrary to how I am these days, I stepped back and allowed myself to be in the moment. I said to them, quietly, "Remember last year, how you both asked me if I was coming back? Well, I didn't want to at the time, but you both made me change my mind. You two were the reason I wanted to teach AP. And you make me glad I changed my mind." Hillary was too focused on her essay to really hear. Gabby looked up, smiled, then said, "You should teach us next year too." Oh boy.

A Lonely Year

Time is getting away from me this year--more so than even last year, I think. AP has me on my toes at all times and chained to a desk with a grading pen. On the other hand, my American Lit classes have me contemplating if I know anything about teaching at all. Each day I stare at the blank, quiet faces and the contrasting peanut gallery, who apparently have never head the phrase "Shut up." I'm teaching my tail off in AP and chasing my tail in American Lit.

On top of juggling two academic worlds, this year is a lonely year for me. Whereas last year I'd decompress with my colleagues in our make-shift faculty lounge, or laugh it off with my work wife, I'm very much in my own world. It's me and the kids, and that's it. My school this year has a very different culture than my school last year. We were so broke in so many ways. I don't have to repeat the whole saga--you know the story. I think the conditions in which we lived each day is perhaps what helped grow the culture our school developed. We had nothing but each other. At times literally shoved into places way too cramped--and that's how we formed this closeness with each other and our kids. While so many things were so wrong last year, our culture was one thing that was really right.

The merger butchered that. I see it on the faces of the kids from my former school. They feel it too. It's a longing for this unidentified void to be filled. Because it's a feeling I've not really felt before, I'm not sure what to make of it or how to help my kids make sense of it. I suppose that's why I hold some of them close . . . more hugs this year, more talks, more wanting to be around them rather than being forced.

There's more to say on all this, but I'll leave it here for now.

The Stranger in the Photo

Have you ever written an essay with your students?  When I have the time, I try. This time I wanted to do this assignment, which was modeled after Donald Murray's "The Stranger in the Photo is Me," and I'm so glad I did. While the students taught me so much about them, I was able to learn so much about myself.

Here is my essay:

I have many childhood photos I can recall. 

One where I am in red overalls with a Raggedy Ann, holding a pie fresh from the oven, on the front flap. My golden brown hair frames my chubby cheeks. I’m wearing blue canvass shoes that have a Snoopy and a Woodstock on the side, but one shoe is obscured because I have my leg tucked under me. I am not yet four, and in my big brown eyes, I have all the brightness and delight of a child that age.

In another, my long hair hangs over my tan shoulders as I lean down above my puppy dog cake, ready to blow out the seven candles. I’m with my mother and grandmother in an Amtrak train that’s Chicago-bound. My Snoopy doll, which I called Snoopy Snoopy Smup Smup, is sitting in the seat next to me. A sense of delight and wonder as I embark on my biggest journey yet and another year of life fill my eyes.

In these photos I’m a gregarious, fearless child. I’m gregarious because I know no stranger. I’m fearless because I don’t yet know the sharp edges of this world. In these photos I’m the same child who, at five years old, walks onto a stage in a dark theater and sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a row of balding, cigar-smoking men who are casting for Damn Yankees. The spotlight and the whispers of these now faceless men do not intimidate me. I sing with the confidence of a child who knows no shame.

But one picture in particular haunts me. In this photo I’m about four years old and I am neither happy nor sad. Kermit the Frog, who hangs around my neck, is smiling, but I am staring at the camera as if I’m in mid-sentence. I have on my pajamas with the little elephants and lions—pajamas I remember well. They are pink and footed, and they are the ones I was wearing when, as I unzipped them, discovered the horrors of chicken pox.  

In this photo I am striking a pose, but not like that kind of pose. It’s someone else’s pose. I can tell because my little magnetic number and alphabet board is faced toward the man taking the picture, and not me.

In this photo I see a sense of sadness that I could not have known then, but as my older self—the self who has seen what’s on the other side—I see an eerie foreboding. At times I think that my child self is standing on a precipice and staring down into the rabbit hole of my adult life. At times I think that my child self—trapped in this forever mid-sentence—is saying, “Stay right here!”  

But as a child I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted reassurance, but I wanted independence more, like the moment I first tried out my lifejacket. At five years old I was ready to swim in the big lake, but I had my mother hold on to my lifejacket so I was sure it worked, and then I was off. Just as I rushed into big girl swimming, I rushed to my adulthood, but as I did so, I was inadvertently rushing into moments that shattered the person I could have been. Along the way, I collided into the men who stole my innocence, my mother abandoning me, my grandmother locking me out of the house, my hospital stays. In each moment, that gregariousness, that fearlessness, that independence died.

Life can chisel away at a person’s soul, and in my rushing, I never knew that. I hadn’t watched my great-grandfather die, hadn’t watched my grandmother age, hadn’t watched my baby brother find a juvenile record, hadn’t felt the punch of unemployment.

Just as I was posed in this picture, I was posed throughout my childhood, mostly as the victim. As I grew up, I tried different poses myself, and never ones that benefitted me: the depressed one, the silent one, the angry one, the defensive one, the shamed one, the bitter one. 

As I look back at those moments that killed what I could have been, those moments—and many other wonderful ones—are what gave rise to what I am today. My arms, which were the first to hold both my little brothers; my hands, which held my wife’s as we spoke our vows; my eyes, which have stored in them all the stunning mountains and canyons I’ve seen; my mind, which can give poetic language to what I think and feel; my feet, which allow me to stand before my students each and every day. 

The little girl in the picture doesn’t know any of that. She just wants to cling on to her innocence, and she wants me to stay with her forever, but I can’t. I have to grow up and become what life intended me to be: a wife, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a teacher, a friend, and ultimately, a survivor. 

A Series of Firsts

I've really missed this place and it feels good to be back. Unlike last last year, I've been busy, but busy good for once.

The last time I posted I was still raw, and in many ways I still am. Each day I feel the absence of my colleagues, my friends, and while I may get used to it, I won't get over it. The first day of school--and I'll tell you about that shortly--I talked to my students about my feelings. I got choked up and almost started crying, but they got it. They saw how we were with one another, with them, and they recognize the loss. During lunch, several students will hang out in my room. I joke that it's a displaced student camp because all the students are former (the name of my pre-merger school) students. But it's nice because we can reminisce about the "old days," bonding in unexpected ways and keeping the spirit of what we were alive.

So, our first week at school--any school for that matter--is PD (professional development). Some schools I've worked at have meaningful PD, others not so much. This year was the not so much category. All schools gathered that first Monday, and it was a lot of bla, bla, bla, then we were told all other PD for the week will be at our school sites. That PD was basically setting up our rooms. However, during that Monday, all of us from my pre-merger school were able to see one another--with the exception of two colleagues who are still looking for employment--and that was amazing. We all sat together and it felt, for a second, like we were still a team.

It's a tradition for my charter organization, during this Monday, to award the teacher of the year for each school. The woman who introduces this part of the ceremony--if you want to call it that--is our chief academic officer, and she is the only person from the central office who has recognized or verbalized what has happened to us. Her word for the layoffs, the merger, the nuttiness of last year is "sketchy." She explained that things were sketchy last year, but some teachers excelled and went above and beyond in spite of this, then she had the principal of each school come up and announce their teacher.

I thought for sure it would be my colleague who taught history last year. He was a first year teacher, and he was teaching AP, two other history classes, art, student council; he was finishing his masters; he broke up multiple fights and caught several kids doing drugs. This poor guy--I don't know how he's still teaching. Last year really took a toll on him, but he was never bitter like I was. I was expecting to hear his name when my principal said mine. I felt like those actresses who win the Academy Award and look around to see who won, when really, they won. I don't remember what my principal said, but I walked up to the stage and gave her a hug.

It was a bittersweet moment for me. That's a trite phrase, but that's the perfect phrase. I've never been recognized in that way by a school I've worked for, and it felt good for someone to say in such a public way, "You matter, and what you do matters." That was the sweet part. The bitter part was that last year my dear friend, my work wife, won this award for our school. I wanted to celebrate with her, with our staff, but that wasn't to be. In a way, I felt like we all deserved this award for what we went through. In another way, I wondered if I deserved it all. Reflecting back on last year, all the thoughts I've vented on here, and the many others which did not make it on here, would a teacher of the year think or say or believe those things? My former colleagues were really happy for me, telling me I deserved this award, then we parted ways.

We all went back to our school site (that is another blog entry), and this year I'm happy to report that I'm sans pigeons, though I will miss the joke that I have the smartest pigeons in the metropolitan area. And, for the first time in two years, I am able to have out all my fun school stuff. Last year I shared my room and it was always unlocked. Things would go missing all the time, so I never had out all my decorations, and the year before that my materials were in storage since I was unemployed. This year my room is me--it has my books, my posters, my desk decorations, my stool. My room is clean, and the door gets locked at night, so I return and it looks exactly the same.

Everything was set up perfect, just the way I wanted, so the only thing I was waiting for was my students. I think all teachers, no matter how long they've been teaching, get butterflies that first Monday. We wonder if they will like us, if we will like them, and that's normally what I am concerned about, but this year I was wondering if they were even coming back. Our new school site is quite far from where our previous site was--probably 15 or more miles. All our students take public transportation, unless their parents can drive them, and I thought for sure they would find a school closer to home. I was devastated at this thought, particularly with my AP class. I spent all summer preparing for them, and I was convinced that these kids, the ones who I said I would come back for, weren't coming back. If they weren't there, why stay? Why have AP if the children I built this program around weren't coming?

When I opened my door second period, that first Monday morning, I heard shrieks. I thought a fight was breaking out right outside my room. Instead, I was bombarded by hugs. "I missed you!' "I couldn't wait for this class to start!" "I'm so excited about this class!" They all came back. Literally, every single student who was supposed to be in that class is there. I couldn't believe it. And they were so happy to see me and to see each other. For the first time in a long time I felt like things might, for a second, be okay.

Love

A Poem

Before taking up my teacher ed program, I was working on my MFA in creative writing. I miss the days of playing with words, pondering my feelings, and pursuing my own intellectual queries. While it's been a long time since I've picked up the pen and battled with the blank page, all this uncertainty has rattled me to the core. The professional has merged with the personal, and I feel really lost. Writing, particularly poetry, is one way I cope. I almost never share what I write, but for some reason I want to share this one with you.

A Metaphor

How careless to have burned my thumb

on the oven rack.  I jump;

startled from my numb,

watch the pink flesh wilt—

little heat arrows

burrow then simmer.

Sink water will not do

to halt the pluck

of the nerve,

to unfeel this feeling.

I am armed—it’s a coup:

brown bottle, fizz

ointment-smothered.

Pain is no match for instinct;

wrap it up, hide the mark.

Sensation suffocated,

held hostage,

stifled, walled-off.

Strange what one touch can spark.

How Can We Sleep?

I made an allusion this past school year to being trapped in a burning building. Ironically, or maybe not, I was in the car the other day when I heard one of my favorite songs from the 80s by Midnight Oil--"Beds Are Burning." I turned it up, because for me, the louder the better. As I listened to the lyrics, I thought about our situation, and the words resonated on so many levels. I became angrier an angrier as I listened, and so many questions crossed my mind: How can they sleep at night knowing what they've done? How are we supposed to move on as if nothing has happened? Why are they discarding or displacing us rather than begging us to stay? Why are they pigeonholing the students and teachers rather than empowering them? 

I could almost see it in my mind--teachers and students taking over the central office and shouting one verse, and the powers that be coming to their senses and begging forgiveness in another verse.

The Teachers, The Students:

How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning

The Powers That Be:

The time has come
To say fair's fair
To pay the rent, now
To pay our share
The time has come
A fact's a fact
It belongs to them
We're gonna give it back

I met a young woman just a few days ago who has been laid off three times in her five years of teaching. When she is rehired, she's at a new school teaching a different grade level. That doesn't scare her. What does scare her is being #414 on the list to get rehired at her district. Meanwhile, the students she was supposed to teach get a long-term sub rather than her, #414. It's outrageous, yet her situation, my situation are acceptable in this country.

Pubic education in the United States has lost all morality. It's in a burning bed, and the government wants to impose laws that dictate how to put out the fire; the public wants to pinpoint blame on who set the fire; districts lay off half the teachers and hand the remaining ones a garden hose to fight the fire; and meanwhile, the media asks, "Why aren't the students leaning?"

It's time to wake up, America, and demand better for your children, the next generation of leaders. Unless you do, the powers that be will never chant that verse and the children's future will be consumed.

Work Wife

There are so many heartbreaking aspects of this merger, but today I want talk about one in particular: my work wife. She was the Spanish teacher at my school, and an amazing one at that.

We became friends instantaneously--probably the moment I saw a Starbucks cup in her hand. She was a returning teacher this past year, so she had years of the crazy under her belt. Right away she gave me the scoop on all I needed to know. The first few weeks I followed her lead: if she was panicked, I was panicked, and if she wasn't, I tried not to be panicked.

As I mentioned in previous posts, we did not have a faculty lounge or an unoccupied place to go after school. All our classrooms were filled with students and teachers working on the next play or rehearsing the next choir or band performance--except for my friend's classroom. At the end of the day, we all piled into her room, and while it took me awhile to get used to being around people all the time and never having a moment of silence, I realize now that is how we all became so close. We were literally shoved together, first physically, then emotionally.

Those moments after school became what I looked forward to. We had our routine. She sat at her desk, I sat at a table or a student desk next to her, and we both tutored our students. Because we shared many students, we tag-teamed if our kids ever gave us trouble. That only deepened our bond. After the kids and other teachers wandered away for the evening, we stayed, just for a bit. We talked about our day, venting about a stressful situation or relishing in a light bulb moment. At times we shared our worries, complained about the instability of our school, but we laughed too. And we always ended the day by walking out to our cars together and giving each other a hug.

As the year wore on, our friendship grew stronger. We had "grading dates," taking our work to Starbucks. If a student wrote a really amazing essay or created a fantastic project in Spanish, we shared with each other. We talked about our mutual students, and if a student earned praise or reprimanding, that student received double. It felt natural, like this was the way it always was and always would be.

My partner called her my work wife. The students even started to see us as a pair. Some of them started to refer to us as "the homies," asking us, "Are you eating lunch with your homie today?" or "Why is your homie on my case about my English grade?" A few of my "homie's" students who called her "Mom" started to call me "Auntie." As funny as this was, I felt that sisterhood with her. On the days where I could not find any reason to get out of bed and go to school, I remembered my friend. She gave me confidence and stability in a place that was barren of both.

The news of last week, the loss of my work wife, has me reeling. I'm devastated for our students who called her "Mom," for our students who she's inspired. Her unrelenting push for excellence brought out the best in our kids. I think we all taught to a higher level because of her. She reminded us never to wane in our position, no matter how much the kids complained. I'm devastated for her, because she lost her job. After five years of service and "teacher of the year," shouldn't our charter organization beg her to stay? And selfishly, I'm devastated for me. If anything, this situation has strengthened our friendship, but I don't want to know what it's like to not work aside my friend. She was the calm and the strength in the storm. She was the hope and the light in the darkness, and the powers that be have extinguished that from the students and the teachers who remain.

Utter Despair

Merger. That's a word I will never forget. That's the word that changed my life. That's the word that started the conversation on Tuesday.

Due to low enrollment, my high school, along with another high school in my charter, are to be merged. We knew layoffs were inevitable, but we didn't know the extent until yesterday.

If you've been following my blog, my school was insanity last year. I never thought children could be educated like this in America. We went without toilet paper for three days. In one of our high schools--the high school we are merging with--the only toilets are porta potties. Pigeons lived in my ceiling and their poop ran down my wall. Our one copier went without toner for weeks. The tables and chairs where our students ate lunch were confiscated in the fall because our school did not pay the rent for them, so they ate on the floor or stood up for the rest of the year. We were given no supplies, not even a dry erase marker. Our PE teacher had no equipment and no budget to purchase any. They've paid us up to a week late and our paychecks bounced once. We even faced a 40% reduction in teachers in October, but we stayed.

We stayed because we had kids we loved, and we stayed for each other. There were only eight of us left after the fall layoffs, so our bond grew fast and tight. We were in a war, and we quickly became brothers and sisters. Only the eight of us knew and understood that view from the foxhole. I grew to love them, because some days they were my only light and hope.

Yesterday, I learned all of them were cut, and I am the only teacher who remains and who will be merging with this new school. I take no pride or joy or relief in this. Instead, it sickens me.  And it sickens me to know the reason I remained--this AP class I decided to start. I guess no one else at the new school has this training, so they took one of the few joys I had and bastardized it.

If I had the money, I would walk away from this disaster, but this is the nature of their abusive way. They are master manipulators and know how to use our weakness to their advantage. I have to take it because I need their money, and I have to stay because where else am I going to find a job now? If I try to raise my voice in grief or anger, I can join my colleagues who are out of work.

I've said it before, but this situation trumps all others--I don't recognize my profession.  When I was laid off two years ago, it saddened me beyond belief.  I felt lonely to not have a classroom and students to go to.  Now, I feel gutted.  And lost.  So lost.

I Made It!

Last Friday was the last day of school! Can you believe it? I can't. When I think about everything I've survived this year, it astounds me. You know the saying there are no atheists in a foxhole? I guess there aren't any in an urban high school. Some greater force must have been at play, because it couldn't have been all me.

I survived the layoffs, the students (most days), the three grade levels, the 4X4 schedule, and the general chaos of the school year. My car didn't totally survive--I'm still fighting that one. Go figure. Some days I did not survive the lack of toilet paper, but thankfully those days my neighbor was willing to "spare a square."

You know how sometimes out of the rubble something greater is built? That's kind of how I feel, oddly enough. At the beginning of all of this, I felt like surely I would succumb to all of the external pressure, because my internal framework--my own image of myself as a teacher--was shattered. Somehow, making my way through all this muck helped me emerge and reclaim my teacher self. I don't know how or why, because there were so many days when I just wanted to walk away--even run away. But I didn't. I stayed. I fought. And I won.

Stars, Schmars

Since I last posted, a lot has happened. (I feel like a lot of my posts have begun this way, so I apologize for any redundancy.) A few days after my last post, I decided to talk to my principal and assistant principal about teaching AP Lit next year. Two or three days later, the current AP teacher resigned to become principal of another school. I felt like finally the stars were aligning, and I didn't know what to do with that feeling.

Then, about a week later, our CEO was ousted by the board. I made some flippant remarks on here several months ago regarding an email she sent shortly after taking control of our charter in the fall, and now I regret that because it was directed at the situation and not at her. In the same way President Obama inherited a failing economy, our charter's CEO inherited all our bad debt. She had to make harsh and unpopular decisions, such as the 25% slash in all our school's budgets. While that resulted in our layoffs back in October, I realize she had to hurt the few to save the whole. She was open and honest about our financial status and her plan to make it right, and for that reason, she gained the respect and confidence of the staff, parents, and students. For the sake of anonymity, I don't want to elaborate on why she was asked to leave, but I will say her forced resignation left a lot of people unhappy.

The new CEO starts in the summer, and that feeling of uncertainty is returning. At least before I felt like I had some confidence we were going to be financially stable for next school year. Now I don't know. I don't know what this guy's plan will be--merger, closures, layoffs, or something else.

Three CEOs, 40% teacher layoffs, 25% budget cuts, and one large cloud of uncertainty all in one academic year does not bode well for morale or confidence. So much for stars aligning.

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. 

Heavy Words

Just this past week, a former student contacted me via email. She is one of my kids whom I talked about not too long ago. We've been in touch off and on since I left the high school where she was my student for two years, and she's told me tales of her college life. Her email seemed like an ordinary update until she wrote there was a lot to tell me and she didn't know where to begin. Things like Is she dropping out? or Is she getting married? or Is she pregnant? crossed my mind only because I've received those updates. While I support my students no matter what, my hope is that those things happen after college or trade school are complete and careers are underway. But as I read further, I only became more alarmed. I audibly gasped and had to reread her words to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I saw. My confirmation gave way to a feeling of shock then heaviness, and I sat there, staring at her email.

My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.

I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.

Depression

It's been ten days since my last post. Ten long days. Spring break is about a month away, and it can't come soon enough. Juggling three different grade levels and curriculum on an accelerated schedule is unmanageable. This past week I've stood before my students totally unprepared and "winging it." While in the past I've done that--scrapped a lesson plan and let the students' interest guide the day's discussion or the topic of study--this is not like before. This is "I'm going on four or five hours of sleep and I'm trying to read three novels simultaneously and develop lesson plans and grade essays and homework and I'm too exhausted to do it all so something has to give."

On top of my day-to-day work struggles, I have another battle I'm fighting. I'm going to go out on a limb here and be more honest with you than I've probably ever been before. I've fought depression since my adolescence, but since my early twenties, my mood and outlook have been steady and optimistic. Two years ago, when I lost my job, that all changed, and today, as I stand against waves of uncertainty in my professional life, my personal life is taking a beating. My depression is back and in full force in a way it hasn't been in a long, long time.

There were many situations when I was a child that rendered me powerless. My teachers were my protectors; my education was my escape. Becoming a teacher was a not-so-obvious next step for me, but once my career started, it all made sense to me--my classroom was a place of empowerment for me. I wrapped up my identity in who I was to my students, so when I lost my job and the "teacher" was stripped from me, I didn't know who I was. I didn't know where to find that empowerment.

Now that I am back in the classroom, a place of betrayal, in a sense, there is part of me that feels like a powerless child. My work environment mimics a place and pattern I know all too well--instability, chaos, hurt--in other words, the need to protect and flee. Only I'm the adult, and there are 30 or so children depending on me.

Since December, I've been back on anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication. While both are helping me keep my head above water, I know they are only a band-aid to the larger issue. There's a lot of healing and rebuilding to be done, and at times I don't know where to start. While I need to find another job, I question if I can continue a profession that requires so much of me personally.

Hi. It's Me. I'm Still Alive.

Sort of. Between reading three novels simultaneously, grading, and having at least a vague sense of what I'm doing each day, I barely have time for things like sleeping . . . eating. You know, having a personal life outside the classroom. Laundry occurs when I'm out of underwear. Mail piles up unopened. Calls go unreturned. Dishes? I'll just rinse out yesterday's coffee mug.

My once well-thought-out lesson plans have dwindled down to two to three bullet points in a 1960s-ish lesson plan book. Four bullet points if I'm feeling fancy. And I'm barely keeping my head above water.

Most days feel like doing the dog paddle in the middle of the ocean. I'm trying to get off Gilligan's Island, but I'm pretty exhausted. A ship or helicopter could save me, or I could save myself. Or, I could die trying to find the mainland.

Maybe I should just stay on Gilligan's Island. At least it's entertaining and No Child Left Behind doesn't exist.

"Girl"

is not a term students should ever use to address a teacher or any superior, for that matter, yet it seems that two of my new students think it's acceptable. It took me a second, the first time I heard one of my girls use  it, to figure out if the student was even addressing me. Was she talking to me? No. Not possible . . . . Oh my gosh, she was. Then, I about went through the roof. I gave her the stare, then said, "What did you just call me?"

She was so casual, so off-the-cuff--"Oh, you know, girl, like we cool."

"No, we're not 'cool.' I'm your teacher. You know my name. Use it." (Visualize student eye-rolling.)

Ugh. Infuriating. Beyond infuriating. Infuriating because I wouldn't even dare call ANY of my girls, "girl." Ever. Simply put, it's demeaning.

This disturbs me on multiple levels because it's a symptom of a larger problem--respect. Respect for who I am and what my position is. Clearly these two students have difficulty understanding this, which is why I outlined for both of them why this is incorrect and what the consequences will be if they ever address me in this way again.

I have a student who calls me m'am. Everything is "yes, m'am" or "no m'am" for her. That's respect, and not that I need to be "m'am," I'd sure like more of her.

It's not like I believe I teach from an ivory tower or anything. I get to know some of my students well--I give some of them hugs and even nicknames, but I am never, or will ever be, any student's "girl." I don't know why that's so hard, why I have to have these conversations . . . these fights.

Well Crap

Nothing like being told on Tuesday you will have to start teaching a new class on Wednesday.

9th, 11th, and NOW 10th grade English. On a 4X4 schedule. Sure, no problem. I'll be sure to submit those brilliant lesson plans along with my proposal for the global warming crisis.

For any newbies out there reading this: if any administrators tell you they are giving you a class, group of students, or additional responsibilities because you are "up for the challenge," "capable," or "strong," that's your signal to run away very fast without looking back.

$4,500

That's the total damage done to my car.

That's more than I take home in a month. I wasn't kidding when I told my principal that day it did not pay to come into work. In fact, it didn't pay that whole month!

In the last post, I told you one of the reasons why I hadn't posed in awhile. The other reason is because I've spent oodles of time and energy persuading my school to pay for the damage to my car. I sent emails back and forth to HR. I spent hours in meetings with my principal. I even went to the top, emailing our charter's CEO. That move got our HR person to my school, though she arrived four minutes before my next class started, and only to tell me "No. There's nothing we can do."

I felt so defeated, and I finally put my hands up in the air. Fine, I thought. I'll pay. I'll eat the cost. I just want my car fixed. I just want the damage erased.

Then I went to school the next morning and learned another teacher's car was keyed. Phrases like "oh hell no," "told you so" and "power in numbers" floated across my mind, so I talked to this teacher. Being new and young and still passionate, he didn't want to rock the boat. Being older and jaded and knowing better, I told him they are taking advantage of us. If he didn't want to put his neck on the line, that was fine, because what happened to his car was enough. So I walked to my principal's office and respectfully said I refused to take no for an answer, and had everyone listened to me, that other teacher's car might not have been damaged. Then I had a list of questions, easily summarized by this: what will they do to make this right?

My principal heard me out, and she understood where I'm coming from. I also think she is a little worn down by my pushiness and relentlessness. But that's fine by me, because I learned late last week that the charter organization is finally going to pay for the damages. I have to get several estimates and hand them over.

I'm a little reluctant to celebrate yet with the way things have gone. I won't feel totally at ease until I'm looking at my car the way it used to be. And the funny thing is that's how I feel about myself--I won't know things are better until I feel the way I used to--hopeful, optimistic, enthusiastic, and trusting.

Vindication

While I've been a slacker in terms of posting over the last two weeks, what you are looking at above is one of the reasons I've been missing in action. My 9th graders have been the victim of a persuasive unit geared towards the oh-so-relevant topic of cuts in our state's education budget. I tortured them with articles from newspapers, and I even forced them to learn about their state senator. Then I had the gall to assign them one final writing assignment: writing their state senator, persuading him not to cut our education budget. Oh, did I mention they actually had to bring in a business-sized envelope and a stamp? 


Okay, not all of my 9th graders felt hostage to this situation. Some of them actually found this empowering, or, at the very least, somewhat interesting, but a handful literally became hostile at the mention of bringing a stamp. Yes, a stamp. Writing the letter didn't set them off, nor the business-sized envelope, but the stamp did. When I turned the outrage back on them, and asked them how would these letters get mailed without a stamp, they proposed I get the stamps. Me?! I literally screamed back, "I'm not your mother! Get it yourself! You will be paying bills in four years, and you will need a stamp. Figure it out yourself!"

I don't know if it's because next week is the end of the term and they are just as spent as I am, and just as done with me as I am with them, but there were some pretty heated moments in the past two weeks. Moments where I stopped teaching and sat at my desk to sip coffee and grade papers, moments where I ran out of referral slips because I sent enough students to the office, and moments where I lost my cool and screamed, "If you don't give a shit about this, than neither do I!" During these moments, I don't recognize myself as a teacher, and I feel like some alien has invaded my body. I feel like someone else is running the show, not me--the real me.

But, when the kids turned in their letters, they had their stamps and envelopes. I had a few students read their letters out loud, and I was moved in a way that I've not felt in the classroom in quite awhile. I'd met with all of them while they worked on their letters, and I knew what they were writing about, but to hear their own voices behind their profound words was poignant. In that moment, I knew that I, or this assignment, had broken through to several of them, and even if it didn't, they at least had a letter, an envelope, and a stamp. Driving home last night, I was exhausted, yet there's this other feeling peering beyond. Something like vindication.

I teach in an environment where I feel crazy all day until I talk to someone--a colleague or a loved one--and know that I'm not. The thinking (of some of the kids and some of the people running the place) is so contrary to what I know and believe. I'm unable to articulate it yet, but those letters, those stamps and those envelopes were like a winning point. Finally, a winning point.

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."

News Flash

Wow, the CEO of our charter just emailed us this evening to tell us we will make payroll this month AND actually get books--quite possibly enough for each student!

Golly, I wonder if this means we will get more supplies than the ONE dry erase marker we received, or if the pigeons will be removed from my ceiling (or at least the bird droppings from my walls), or if our PE teacher will get a budget for equipment, or if we will finally get paper for the copier? Holy smokes, maybe we could get a bulk supply of toilet paper and toner for the copier so we never run out again!

Man, we're really college-prep now!

An Email to My Principal

After my last post, I think it goes without saying that during my break, I had to get away from all things school-related. It was an amazing two weeks off, and for the first time in a long time, I felt happy and relaxed.

Unfortunately, my New Year's resolution of "attitude of gratitude" went out the window this morning. Over break, my principal did relay to me that she filed a claim for my car, and that after break, we would question and punish the student I identified as the person who keyed my car. Today I learned that my school is fighting paying for the damages as I cannot "prove" the damage occurred on school property. Furthermore, the student I identified (with whom I've had multiple run-ins, including that Friday) remains unpunished. I have copied below parts of the email I sent my principal this evening, and I think it says everything I have to say about this issue . . . for now.   

"I have to say that I'm surprised, and frankly, disappointed in how the meeting with *Danny ended after I left . . . The fact that he is ordered to do community service with me, the victim in this scenario, is truthfully offensive. Community service as you described in the hallway (cleaning tables, white board, etc.) is a form of detention I have mandated in the past to students who have eaten in my classroom, so this punishment seems very light in terms of Danny's offenses (disrespecting me, confronting me, harassing me, walking out of my class, cursing at me, mishandling my personal property, and vandalizing my car). Furthermore, as I am the victim, I do not see why I am being held responsible for handling his punishment, especially considering I made it clear that I do not wish to have further contact with Danny. To be very honest, this punishment does not only fail to hold him responsible for his actions--it's an open invitation to disrespect teachers and vandalize their property without consequences. I think this decision is setting a dangerous precedent, and I hope you will reconsider a more stern punishment.

Regardless, I want to reiterate that do not feel safe interacting with Danny in any capacity and that I will not be responsible for overseeing his community service. That is a decision that was made when I was not in the room.  I did not agree to this, and I will not be a part of it.  

I trusted this matter would have been handled appropriately, but I do not feel that is the case. I don't think you understand how violated I feel. This experience has marred an already difficult school year. I'm already reminded of it each time I get into my car, and now I'll feel the same way each time I walk into school. I hope you will reconsider your decision after reading this email and discussing this further with me tomorrow." 

*The student's name has been changed.