I'm still waiting to hear about that job, and the longer I wait, the more discouraged I become. I just want to know so I can move on or prepare to leave. Either way, for whatever reason, I feel in the deepest part of myself that in the next three weeks I am teaching my final lessons.
Last week was state testing, so as I proctored, I used that time to set my schedule for the three weeks that will follow. I wanted to do something really meaningful for both the students and for me, so I decided to recycle a unit I had used several years ago on The Crucible and modern witch hunts. I was both relieved and amazed. Relieved because I don't have to recreate the wheel, but amazed because I used to be such a good teacher. I put so much time and energy into what I did, and it showed. The work I demanded of my students was intellectually and emotionally rigorous, and now? Well, I feel ashamed. My class is a vacant representation of who I once was.
I wonder, are these final lessons meant for me or for my students?
If they're for my students, the lessons are what I've intended to teach all along. Lessons that urge them to be more open-minded, accepting people who are politically aware, who are critical consumers, who are prepared to pick up a pen or exert their own voice.
If they're for me, I don't know. Lessons in how a teacher dies a slow death in this system? Lessons in the consequences of budget cuts and high-stakes testing? Lessons in the futility of our current educational system? Or maybe the lessons are personal ones.
I took a hike yesterday in a place I've never hiked before. I had no idea where I was going--I was just following the path ahead. I kept wondering Where is this path going to lead? That's how I feel about my life right now: I have no idea where this path is going to lead. All I know is where I've been. Along the way, I've had some amazing experiences and I've met some amazing people, but somewhere on this path, I lost myself. I started to not trust what I know and what I feel. Somewhere on this path, someone else took control. Now I have to get that control--get myself--back.
It's terrifying not knowing, especially when I don't trust, especially when I don't have faith. If anything, these last two years have taken both from me. I don't like admitting that. It sounds so victimish, so weak, but it's true. And while I don't trust or have faith this job will happen for me, I trust and have faith in my instincts about this job. It feels right. It feels me. I can't remember the last time I've felt that about anything.
I don't know where this path is going, but I know where I want it to lead. So maybe these lessons aren't about my students after all. Maybe they are meant for me to prepare myself for where I want to go.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
I'm Done
Something in me has snapped. I've been waiting for this for the past two years, and it's finally arrived as a cocktail of resignation, apathy and depression.
I just can't do this anymore. I mean I really, really can't do this. Unlike the many times I've uttered these words before, this is not a moment of anger or outrage; rather, this is a moment of clarity. Earlier this evening, I was packing my lunch for tomorrow. I started to contemplate the little "tricks" I've developed to feel excited about the next day--a sandwich on rye bread instead of the usual wheat, fresh sides from the deli, new Tupperware--new Tupperware!? While I enjoy food immensely, how sad is it that lunch is to what I look forward, that what I pack for lunch is my motivation in the morning?
Ophelia's passing has certainly given me pause. The night before her seizure, I decided--on a whim--not to do any work at home. She curled up next to me on the bed that evening for an hour or so and was especially affectionate and loving. As that was the last interaction I had with her before the seizure, I certainly don't regret neglecting work. If I had spent that evening with a computer or stack of papers in my lap, I would have never forgiven myself.
Even before that, however, I really started to think about my future. I want to have the energy, when I come home, to do a load of laundry or dishes, or even cook dinner. I want to spend the evening with my partner, discussing our day or watching TV. I want to fall asleep reading a book. I want to spend my weekends with friends. I want to go on walks or hikes again. Most of these things don't occur now because the time and the energy don't exist. My job comes home with me in the form of physical or emotional work, and none of it comes home in a positive way.
A few weeks ago I interviewed for my first non-teaching job. Aside from my lustrous career as a barista while I was in college, this is the first non-teaching interview I've had in over ten years. While I was nervous, the whole experience was oddly refreshing. The building and its surroundings were a burst of color and sun. I felt like I was climbing out of a bunker and looking at the world for the first time in years. The office--the bathrooms even--felt "fancy." The woman who interviewed me--my potential boss--had a lovely office with artwork and lamps and everything was in its place. The room itself was calm. I could hear myself think and feel myself communicate. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone in a professional capacity was actually listening to me.
The first week after the interview I felt hopeful, and I felt that way because I found a job and interviewed for a job I really, really want. This isn't a lifeboat--this is the real thing--and this job makes me realize I can have a career outside of teaching, and I can actually find meaning and enjoyment from this career. The day after my interview, I had a vision of myself working at this company, and I said out loud, "I can do this. And I can be good at this. This is it. This is my job." However, as the weeks have gone by, I feel less certain. The uncertainty gnaws at me, but so does the hope. Dissatisfaction is underscored when the individual is shown what could be. Now that I know, I just can't go through the motions. I'm done.
I don't know what the future holds, but I think I've finally come to terms with where I'm at. The funny thing is I remember discussing teacher burnout when I was in my credentialing program, and all of us young and inexperienced educators chalked it up to people who weren't meant to be in the classroom anyway. I know I'm a teacher at heart, but who I am and where I'm at, I'm learning, are two very different things.
I just can't do this anymore. I mean I really, really can't do this. Unlike the many times I've uttered these words before, this is not a moment of anger or outrage; rather, this is a moment of clarity. Earlier this evening, I was packing my lunch for tomorrow. I started to contemplate the little "tricks" I've developed to feel excited about the next day--a sandwich on rye bread instead of the usual wheat, fresh sides from the deli, new Tupperware--new Tupperware!? While I enjoy food immensely, how sad is it that lunch is to what I look forward, that what I pack for lunch is my motivation in the morning?
Ophelia's passing has certainly given me pause. The night before her seizure, I decided--on a whim--not to do any work at home. She curled up next to me on the bed that evening for an hour or so and was especially affectionate and loving. As that was the last interaction I had with her before the seizure, I certainly don't regret neglecting work. If I had spent that evening with a computer or stack of papers in my lap, I would have never forgiven myself.
Even before that, however, I really started to think about my future. I want to have the energy, when I come home, to do a load of laundry or dishes, or even cook dinner. I want to spend the evening with my partner, discussing our day or watching TV. I want to fall asleep reading a book. I want to spend my weekends with friends. I want to go on walks or hikes again. Most of these things don't occur now because the time and the energy don't exist. My job comes home with me in the form of physical or emotional work, and none of it comes home in a positive way.
A few weeks ago I interviewed for my first non-teaching job. Aside from my lustrous career as a barista while I was in college, this is the first non-teaching interview I've had in over ten years. While I was nervous, the whole experience was oddly refreshing. The building and its surroundings were a burst of color and sun. I felt like I was climbing out of a bunker and looking at the world for the first time in years. The office--the bathrooms even--felt "fancy." The woman who interviewed me--my potential boss--had a lovely office with artwork and lamps and everything was in its place. The room itself was calm. I could hear myself think and feel myself communicate. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone in a professional capacity was actually listening to me.
The first week after the interview I felt hopeful, and I felt that way because I found a job and interviewed for a job I really, really want. This isn't a lifeboat--this is the real thing--and this job makes me realize I can have a career outside of teaching, and I can actually find meaning and enjoyment from this career. The day after my interview, I had a vision of myself working at this company, and I said out loud, "I can do this. And I can be good at this. This is it. This is my job." However, as the weeks have gone by, I feel less certain. The uncertainty gnaws at me, but so does the hope. Dissatisfaction is underscored when the individual is shown what could be. Now that I know, I just can't go through the motions. I'm done.
I don't know what the future holds, but I think I've finally come to terms with where I'm at. The funny thing is I remember discussing teacher burnout when I was in my credentialing program, and all of us young and inexperienced educators chalked it up to people who weren't meant to be in the classroom anyway. I know I'm a teacher at heart, but who I am and where I'm at, I'm learning, are two very different things.
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