In-between my first post in August and now, a lot has happened. I guess you could say some of these events were fate, destiny, kismet. Maybe, maybe not, but the point is that these events have changed my outlook.
The first event is reuniting with a professional organization I've distanced myself from quite a bit over the past three years. I suppose I felt like I didn't deserve to be around these inspiring educators because I had strayed so far from their mission. I wasn't implementing the curriculum or walking the walk, so to speak. My anger had become this wall that protected me but inadvertently kept the good out too. I didn't want to be cheered up, I didn't want to be told everything was going to be okay--I just wanted to be left alone. Spending a weekend with many of these individuals, however, I felt my shell start to crack, and the love, the acceptance, and the call to action found a way in. In the same way ivy grips onto concrete and breaks through, something forced its way into me.
The second event is more like a fact, and this fact has shifted everything. Our teaching staff has changed considerably. Some teachers left the state, some left the school, others transferred to a different school in our charter, and that leaves the face of our campus entirely different. Many of the new teachers are just that--new teachers. Having so many first-year teachers brings a source of energy that is refreshing and contagious. I suppose I've forgotten what it's like to be fresh out of college and so sure that I can change the world. While I now see that as naive, I also see it as necessary. If everyone is jaded, nothing will ever change.
These teachers are amazing, sweet, and inspired. It feels so good to tell them they did a good job when they handled a difficult situation well, or responded to a student in a positive way, or that it's going to be okay and they just have to trust themselves.
Like Holden from The Catcher in the Rye, I find myself wanting to keep these new teachers innocent. I don't want them to see and feel some of the things I've seen and felt. I wished, as a first-year teacher, that I could have had a mentor or someone to look to for advice. I certainly don't see myself as the sage teacher on campus, but I've certainly experienced a lot for someone entering her seventh year in the classroom.
Three have already cried in front of me. There's sort of a miracle in that. I guess the miracle is how raw they are. For so long the feelings I've associated with teaching are anger or numbness. To see their emotion, to feel their energy is empowering and has pulled me out of the slumber I've been in for the past three years.
Almost two years ago, I blogged about the teacher I will never be again. I still believe that's true--I can never go back to that person--but now I can see my profession through someone else's eyes, and that's refreshing. What strikes me so is that I've been complaining about feeling so unsupported and alone, and now I find so much meaning in giving others support. In a strange way, I feel like the support I'm giving comes back to me in a sense--a feeling that we're thinking and feeling the same thing, that we're all in this together. We may cry for different reasons, but we cry because it hurts--and it does to be so vulnerable--but at least we're vulnerable together.
I feel reborn, like I'm entering my second act.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
An Apology to My Students
Dear 12th Graders,
I've thought about what I wanted to say to you, and one of the most important things that comes to mind is, "I'm sorry." Last year was one of the hardest years of my life professionally and personally. Professionally, I just wasn't myself at all.
Maybe that has to do with the series of layoffs and the closure of our school at the end of last summer. Losing colleagues I had grown to trust and to respect--had grown to love and to create friendships with--has been incredibly painful.
Or maybe it has to do with the difficult circumstances in my personal life.
I don't know, but the point is that I wasn't myself as a teacher and that hurt me, but more importantly, it hurt you.
This past summer, my 16 year-old brother was arrested and sentenced for breaking and entering into homes and businesses. I have watched him from afar for the past four years destroy his life and hurt the people he loves most. Despite my many attempts to reach out to him, he just doesn't want my help. I guess I'm not the right person to help him, but with 2,000 miles between us, it's hard feeling so helpless. I've often hoped that he will encounter soon the person whom he needs.
But if I'm wanting that for him, what am I doing at school? How am I acting? How am I interacting? To whom am I giving attitude? To whom am I not listening? Could you approach me if you need my help?
It's hypocritical.
This past summer, while I was in my hometown, I wasn't able to visit my little brother due to the detention center's rules. If I had visited him, this is what I would have said: "What is wrong? How can I help? Why are you so angry?" And I'd repeat it: "Why are you so angry?" Then I'd tell him, "Anger holds us hostage. While you're in jail, the real jail is your anger. Even when you get out of here, if you're still angry, you will never be free."
Sometimes when we are talking about other people, we also just so happen to be talking about ourselves. Why am I so angry? It's not so important. Not important enough to change the person I know I am.
My brother is not angry. He feels angry. He isn't angry because I know who he is. When my family and I took him to the circus for the first time--he was probably only three or four years old--he was eating an enormous chocolate chip cookie while waiting for the show to start. The little boy sitting in front of him turned around and saw the cookie. The kid looked up in wonder, wishing he had some. My brother, without prompting, broke the cookie in half and gave one half to the little boy. My brother is a loving, caring, generous person who has lost his way. I think all of us do at some point. I know I have, and I'm trying to find my way back.
The room is different. I feel different. I'll be doing different things. We'll be doing different things. I want to show you more of who I am. I want you to do the same. When you get right down to it, we are all the three or four-year-old waiting anxiously at the circus: we want someone with whom we can share. And we want love. And we want validation.
That's why I want this space to be a space where you and I want to be. I want it to be a place where we are respected, challenged, and inspired. So I guess what I'm asking for is your help to make that happen--to bring and to spread compassion and kindness with me and with each other.
And, I guess I'm asking for a second chance.
I've thought about what I wanted to say to you, and one of the most important things that comes to mind is, "I'm sorry." Last year was one of the hardest years of my life professionally and personally. Professionally, I just wasn't myself at all.
Maybe that has to do with the series of layoffs and the closure of our school at the end of last summer. Losing colleagues I had grown to trust and to respect--had grown to love and to create friendships with--has been incredibly painful.
Or maybe it has to do with the difficult circumstances in my personal life.
I don't know, but the point is that I wasn't myself as a teacher and that hurt me, but more importantly, it hurt you.
This past summer, my 16 year-old brother was arrested and sentenced for breaking and entering into homes and businesses. I have watched him from afar for the past four years destroy his life and hurt the people he loves most. Despite my many attempts to reach out to him, he just doesn't want my help. I guess I'm not the right person to help him, but with 2,000 miles between us, it's hard feeling so helpless. I've often hoped that he will encounter soon the person whom he needs.
But if I'm wanting that for him, what am I doing at school? How am I acting? How am I interacting? To whom am I giving attitude? To whom am I not listening? Could you approach me if you need my help?
It's hypocritical.
This past summer, while I was in my hometown, I wasn't able to visit my little brother due to the detention center's rules. If I had visited him, this is what I would have said: "What is wrong? How can I help? Why are you so angry?" And I'd repeat it: "Why are you so angry?" Then I'd tell him, "Anger holds us hostage. While you're in jail, the real jail is your anger. Even when you get out of here, if you're still angry, you will never be free."
Sometimes when we are talking about other people, we also just so happen to be talking about ourselves. Why am I so angry? It's not so important. Not important enough to change the person I know I am.
My brother is not angry. He feels angry. He isn't angry because I know who he is. When my family and I took him to the circus for the first time--he was probably only three or four years old--he was eating an enormous chocolate chip cookie while waiting for the show to start. The little boy sitting in front of him turned around and saw the cookie. The kid looked up in wonder, wishing he had some. My brother, without prompting, broke the cookie in half and gave one half to the little boy. My brother is a loving, caring, generous person who has lost his way. I think all of us do at some point. I know I have, and I'm trying to find my way back.
The room is different. I feel different. I'll be doing different things. We'll be doing different things. I want to show you more of who I am. I want you to do the same. When you get right down to it, we are all the three or four-year-old waiting anxiously at the circus: we want someone with whom we can share. And we want love. And we want validation.
That's why I want this space to be a space where you and I want to be. I want it to be a place where we are respected, challenged, and inspired. So I guess what I'm asking for is your help to make that happen--to bring and to spread compassion and kindness with me and with each other.
And, I guess I'm asking for a second chance.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
The Scoreboard
I've been very quiet in the past month. Sometimes that means I need time and space, sometimes that means I'm busy, but other times it means I'm at the lowest of low points.
Lowest of the low. That is where I am.
Last month, after l got the news about that job, I mourned, but I didn't want that news to beat me. I desperately wanted out of my situation, and feeling sorry for myself wasn't going to make that happen. I knew I had to stand back up. So I did just that--I got back up, applied for positions in and out of the classroom and was able to land two interviews.
One interview was for an independent school I've dreamed of teaching at--literally DREAMED--and when the English department chair and one of the directors requested an interview, I knew it had to be. Since my life has become a shit spiral, I've lost faith. Maybe others in my situation would cling to it all the more, but as life has pounded me, my faith has eroded. But when these two women requested me--wanted me--I felt a spark. A sense of worthiness came over me, and I believed. I believed that with the love and support of this school, I could find my teacher soul again. I believed that if they thought I was good enough to teach in such a prestigious school, that I must be. I believed that maybe, just maybe, this dark cloud would be lifted, and I could start to rebuild my life. As I talked to both women, I felt connected to them. I could see they would challenge and push me in a way that would make me a better person and teacher. I knew--like I haven't known anything in such a long time--that this was my job, that these women would become my colleagues and friends.
The second interview was for a charter school, and while I wasn't oozing with love over the school or the position like I was with the independent school, my interview was solid and I was delighted the principal asked me to do a demo lesson. Delighted meaning I was delighted she asked me to move on to the next round, but I was terrified at the prospect of getting up in front of admin and kids since my last experience was nothing but embarrassing.
In this moment, I found odd parallels with US gymnast Jordyn Wieber. I certainly don't pretend to know what it's like to walk in her shoes, but the feeling of working your entire life towards something only to have it robbed from you via arbitrary rules or technicalities--I feel that. The whole world staring at you as you sob, helpless, watching the scoreboard and trying to understand why--I feel that too, in a sense. I believe my career and my experiences in the classroom have been manipulated by laws, rules, budgets, people, and that my joy and love and passion have been robbed from me. And while the whole world isn't staring at me, I am watching life's scoreboard, waiting and hoping for something different. When Wieber pulled it together to help her team win gold, I felt like this was my moment too. While this isn't the way she was expecting victory, she achieved it nonetheless, and I truly believed that one of these jobs would help me find my victory.
The demo lesson, thankfully, occurred minus a car accident and lateness. I arrived in plenty of time to get set up and transform into teacher mode. The kids were incredibly quiet and shy, and though that threw me a little, I was calm and poised. I could see myself teaching at this school. I could see myself with these kids. I could see my posters hanging on these walls. After the demo lesson, I spoke with the principal again. I felt more connected to her than the previous time. I asked a lot of questions, and her responses encouraged and intrigued me. No, I didn't feel the same level of connectedness as I did with the independent school, but I knew I could reach out to her and I knew she would help me be a better teacher.
When I got home, I felt exhausted beyond belief. The amount of energy it takes me to be "on" these days is extraordinary. I stretched out on the couch, turned on some music, and as I started to drift off, my phone beeped with an email. My independent school found "another more qualified candidate." There I was, staring at the scoreboard, and this time it did feel like the whole world was watching. I didn't cry, though. I think I was just dumbfounded more than anything. I reread the email probably about five times until I really understood what it was saying. Even then I still didn't cry. I couldn't cry, because they couldn't have been talking about me. I had already played out the conversation we'd have when they offered me the job. I heard it, I saw it. But this? No, this wasn't supposed to happen.
This morning when I woke up, I wanted to read that email again to be sure of what it said. Instead, I opened an email from the charter school, and this email was most unexpected. The email was about me, but I was not the intended recipient. The email was from the principal to one of the other admin watching my demo lesson. She agreed with an unspecified concern, said I was a "pass," and back to the drawing board.
School starts Monday, and here I am, staring at the scoreboard. I don't qualify. The gym is empty; everyone has gone home. I look around and remember the routines, what it's like to perform--the focus, the adrenaline, the emotions, the stamina, the crowd. But I am not that performer anymore. I want to walk away, but I can't. I'm trapped in the place full of the echoes of the person I once was. It haunts me and reminds me of what can never be.
Lowest of the low. That is where I am.
Last month, after l got the news about that job, I mourned, but I didn't want that news to beat me. I desperately wanted out of my situation, and feeling sorry for myself wasn't going to make that happen. I knew I had to stand back up. So I did just that--I got back up, applied for positions in and out of the classroom and was able to land two interviews.
One interview was for an independent school I've dreamed of teaching at--literally DREAMED--and when the English department chair and one of the directors requested an interview, I knew it had to be. Since my life has become a shit spiral, I've lost faith. Maybe others in my situation would cling to it all the more, but as life has pounded me, my faith has eroded. But when these two women requested me--wanted me--I felt a spark. A sense of worthiness came over me, and I believed. I believed that with the love and support of this school, I could find my teacher soul again. I believed that if they thought I was good enough to teach in such a prestigious school, that I must be. I believed that maybe, just maybe, this dark cloud would be lifted, and I could start to rebuild my life. As I talked to both women, I felt connected to them. I could see they would challenge and push me in a way that would make me a better person and teacher. I knew--like I haven't known anything in such a long time--that this was my job, that these women would become my colleagues and friends.
The second interview was for a charter school, and while I wasn't oozing with love over the school or the position like I was with the independent school, my interview was solid and I was delighted the principal asked me to do a demo lesson. Delighted meaning I was delighted she asked me to move on to the next round, but I was terrified at the prospect of getting up in front of admin and kids since my last experience was nothing but embarrassing.
In this moment, I found odd parallels with US gymnast Jordyn Wieber. I certainly don't pretend to know what it's like to walk in her shoes, but the feeling of working your entire life towards something only to have it robbed from you via arbitrary rules or technicalities--I feel that. The whole world staring at you as you sob, helpless, watching the scoreboard and trying to understand why--I feel that too, in a sense. I believe my career and my experiences in the classroom have been manipulated by laws, rules, budgets, people, and that my joy and love and passion have been robbed from me. And while the whole world isn't staring at me, I am watching life's scoreboard, waiting and hoping for something different. When Wieber pulled it together to help her team win gold, I felt like this was my moment too. While this isn't the way she was expecting victory, she achieved it nonetheless, and I truly believed that one of these jobs would help me find my victory.
The demo lesson, thankfully, occurred minus a car accident and lateness. I arrived in plenty of time to get set up and transform into teacher mode. The kids were incredibly quiet and shy, and though that threw me a little, I was calm and poised. I could see myself teaching at this school. I could see myself with these kids. I could see my posters hanging on these walls. After the demo lesson, I spoke with the principal again. I felt more connected to her than the previous time. I asked a lot of questions, and her responses encouraged and intrigued me. No, I didn't feel the same level of connectedness as I did with the independent school, but I knew I could reach out to her and I knew she would help me be a better teacher.
When I got home, I felt exhausted beyond belief. The amount of energy it takes me to be "on" these days is extraordinary. I stretched out on the couch, turned on some music, and as I started to drift off, my phone beeped with an email. My independent school found "another more qualified candidate." There I was, staring at the scoreboard, and this time it did feel like the whole world was watching. I didn't cry, though. I think I was just dumbfounded more than anything. I reread the email probably about five times until I really understood what it was saying. Even then I still didn't cry. I couldn't cry, because they couldn't have been talking about me. I had already played out the conversation we'd have when they offered me the job. I heard it, I saw it. But this? No, this wasn't supposed to happen.
This morning when I woke up, I wanted to read that email again to be sure of what it said. Instead, I opened an email from the charter school, and this email was most unexpected. The email was about me, but I was not the intended recipient. The email was from the principal to one of the other admin watching my demo lesson. She agreed with an unspecified concern, said I was a "pass," and back to the drawing board.
School starts Monday, and here I am, staring at the scoreboard. I don't qualify. The gym is empty; everyone has gone home. I look around and remember the routines, what it's like to perform--the focus, the adrenaline, the emotions, the stamina, the crowd. But I am not that performer anymore. I want to walk away, but I can't. I'm trapped in the place full of the echoes of the person I once was. It haunts me and reminds me of what can never be.
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