For Every Victory, Defeat

Not a week after writing about what this new community means to me, fear, loss, and defeat rise to the surface.

It started with a text message at 6:30 in the morning this past Wednesday from a colleague--one of the new, first-year teachers who I will call Laura. She wrote to say our principal had asked her that morning to stay late that evening for a meeting. My friend worried that she was in trouble and asked me if she was right to be worried. Laura had had a rough go of it since the beginning of the year, specifically with classroom management. Our administration had been hovering, and at times the fine line between supporting and breathing down her neck had been crossed. I could see where Laura was coming from, but I encouraged her to keep an open mind, reminding her that our administration wanted her to be successful so the kids could be successful. These words, at the time, were what I knew to be true but would later haunt me.

Wednesday flew by, and it wasn't until Thursday before I thought about Laura's meeting. After school I wanted to check in, but I was inundated with kids, so I waited for a break before I went to her room--that is until I heard one of our mutual students say something about Friday being Laura's last day. I instantly stopped the conversation I was having and went up to her. I begged her not to joke about something like this, but she assured me she was being truthful, and when she said she heard this directly from Laura, I ran next door to Angela's room. Angela is also a first-year teacher, and the expression on her face when I told her what my student said must have mirrored my own. She asked me to watch her kids while she went to go talk to Laura. I could see the two of them speak briefly at the door, and when Angela walked into Laura's room and closed the door behind her, my stomach sank.

Fifteen minutes must have passed before Angela returned, but she didn't need to say a thing--I already knew. I asked Angela to watch my kids while I talked to Laura even though I had a million questions and no words.

Laura opened the door, and I said, "It's true?" At first she nodded calmly. I asked what happened, and she said something about budget issues, but we both knew that wasn't it. Administration had viewed her as a weak link since the beginning of the year because of classroom management. Everyone knew that, especially Laura, but the teachers knew how hard she was trying despite being undermined, at times, by administration. Support can be a vague word, especially when applied to this situation. Various people from the central office were sent to her room for observations, and at a certain point this became a distraction to Laura and her students. Too much advice from too many perspectives became overwhelming and she wanted people to allow her the time to find what worked for her. She had more bad days than good, but our school is not an easy place to teach at let alone be a first-year teacher at, and no one could say that Laura wasn't trying. She was in it for the long-haul, and finally she realized that was it--she was out--and she started to sob. Like I said, I had no words. I just hugged her then walked away so she could clean out her room.

The following day we had a morning meeting, and our little group wore their emotions on their faces. The awkwardness, the tension, the sadness were a physical presence. I don't think anyone was listening to our principal talk about accreditation when we knew this was Laura's last day. For an hour we sat, and I thought for sure our principal wasn't going to say a thing, which made me angry, but when she did speak up the last few minutes, I was even angrier. It was a footnote in the meeting, it was dismissive, and it was not heartfelt. That's not how my principal operates, and I was confounded. After all we had overcome since the layoffs and the merger, how could this be an Ooops! We don't have the money to pay Laura, so we have to let her go!? Something felt off, wrong, suspicious. Then my principal said she wanted to thank Laura for her time at our school and started to clap. Our group looked at each other, as if asking one another if this was really happening. Laura looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. I raised my hand before our meeting ended and said, "I just have to say that Laura, you were my first friend amongst the new teachers, and I'm devastated about this. We all have grown to love you and your absence will be felt." She started to cry, and we all went over to her to give her a hug.

The rest of the day felt like something from a parallel universe--reality but not. We all had knots in our stomachs that even our Friday happy hour could not subside. We compared stories and theories, we joked around, we got a little drunk, Laura got a lot of drunk, but at the end of the evening, everything felt so unresolved, so unsettled.

Losing a colleague in a situation like we are in is something that one does not just get over. When a group bonds in a crisis situation, which is what we are always in, the bonds grow fast and they grow strong. We are separate entities that operate as one because to face this as an individual is too much. To be down a person is like losing a limb. We are no longer complete. We no longer function the same way. We are, in fact, disabled, and for that there is no cure.

Community

Some of my earliest memories involve me trying to connect to someone or something. I'd walk up to anyone and start talking because, simply put, I loved being around people and sharing experiences. I knew no strangers and I held no shame. This characteristic terrified my grandmother because she was convinced I'd be kidnapped, but my mother countered with, "Well, if she was, that person would bring her back because she'd talk his ear off." It was true. And if there wasn't anyone to talk to, I'd improvise. As a toddler, I talked to my Holly Hobby doll as I fell asleep at night, and as a child, I talked into a red Panasonic tape recorder, recording questions I'd later play back and answer. These examples and others earned me the nickname "Motormouth," but this would not last. Time and life experiences would eventually wear away at my gregariousness, making me much more introverted, but they would never remove my desire to connect. In fact, this need to connect is a primal need. In many ways I think that's why I started this blog. Even if I didn't feel a sense of camaraderie at my school, I could could feel it with my readers through relaying my stories.

It's not surprising that all the jobs I've held outside of teaching have involved me helping and serving people, nor is it surprising that teaching is the profession I finally chose. What is surprising is that it's a lonely job. Yes, I'm around people all day. No, I mean ALL day. My cup runneth over with people, and sometimes I don't mean that in a good way. I love that my kids ask questions, but I never thought I'd get sick of hearing my name. I'm happy they want my help, but sometimes I feel like a pack of wolves are dismembering me. I want my kids to take ownership in the classroom, but I don't want sixteen-year-olds telling me what I should do. And the whining. Oh the whining. There's just no positive spin on that. So yes, I'm around people all day, but it can be and is depleting at times. 

Last year I didn't really have a sense of community. It was just me and the kids, and if you read my blog last year, you know how that went. While there were many moments in AP when things went right, there were many, many, many moments when things went wrong with my American Lit class. In those times, I didn't really have a place to turn except to those good moments. Each day I felt myself becoming more and more introverted because I was so angry, so depressed, so bitter. Who would want to be around me? I think I could have had more of a community in some of the teachers, but I punished myself because I felt I didn't deserve it.

This year, I have a community. The new teachers don't know me, so I can be who I want to be. So I can have a second chance. Slowly at first, my guard dissipated. I answered their questions, tried to appease their fears. But their vulnerability became mine. I talked about who I was, and when the year started, I made a conscious decision to continue to talk about it rather than act on it. 

The first-year teachers don't know any different, so of course they're full of hope about what this year can be. I have hope about the teachers they are becoming. Wanting to be a good role model, I am trying to be a better teacher for them. But their hope has become my hope. Now I just want to be a better teacher. 

This community I've found is soul-enhancing. We have lunch with each other every day, even if that lunch is just ten minutes. Some days we grade together, brining our stacks of papers to one room. We have happy hour together. We come to one another for help or advice. We hug each other. We laugh together. We cry together. We carpool together. Each interaction repairs an old wound or prevents a new one from developing. 

They are my adult tape recorder, sharing and allowing me to connect, and my adult Holly Hobby, listening and being present.