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.