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.