The Final Entry

I took an unannounced sabbatical--one that was unintended. I don't like to leave things unfinished, so I will get you caught up on where I was and what happened. 

I was working on a post at the end of October 2012 when I found out my former student whom I've blogged about before passed away. Her death was something I knew possible, but I just never expected it would happen to her. Kids just don't die, right? At least not the ones I've had, and I suppose that makes me lucky. I got the news as I was driving home, and I remember wanting to get out of my car, but at the same time wanting to drive until the road just ended.

When I went home that evening, I flipped through a notebook I had my kids sign when I left that school. I came across her page and read her now-seeming prophetic words. I won't share them here because I want to hold on to them, keep them for myself, but I will say that she wrote about time and how short it is. As I read her words, I just sobbed and sobbed. The tears were for her, for me, for God. I just didn't understand why her, and I didn't understand why I had a life that I was just wasting with anger and bitterness. At her funeral I saw most of my former kids who are now all young adults. We shared tears and hugs and stories, and when I went home that night, I just went numb.

I think I stayed like that for a month. Work was work. My colleagues and I continued to bond and muddle through, but at home, things were rocky.

At winter break, I asked my partner for a separation. We were in my hometown at the time, so I flew home by myself. I remember that as the plane left the tarmac, I felt that same feeling as when I was in the car finding out my former student passed away. I wanted to jump out of that plane yet never leave it. Coming home to an apartment with a life in it that was left on pause only compounded that feeling. The first month was a series of tears, depression, numbness, and fear. In February, I asked for a divorce. Another series of tears, depression, and fear with numbness replaced by anger. 

I don't know how I made it to spring break. One foot in front of the other, I suppose. Of course I had amazing friends by my side and a phone call away, but I recognize that I had to walk that road.

I'm still walking it.

After spring break--well, now this just feels comical--I heard that word again: merger. Two summers ago, my previous high school closed due to a merger, and most of the staff was laid off or displaced. Was I somehow stuck in my own version of Groundhog Day? No, no--that's just the life of a charter school teacher. This time, the opposite happened: most of staff retained their jobs, but I lost mine. There's a lot more I could say here. I'm leaving out details, conversations, angst-filled words, but you've heard the story before. If you haven't, click that link above and you'll get the gist. What I will say is this--I adore my colleagues. They had become such a vital support system due to our work-place chaos and my own personal chaos. They were like limbs, and now they were being ripped away. How was I supposed to function? Suddenly that road ahead of me seemed much more treacherous.

There's a reason people don't build houses on swamps. You kind of need a foundation. I haven't had much of one personally or professionally in the last little while. At least as long as I've had this blog, which is nearly three years. It's no wonder I feel stuck in a house that's sinking and I'm constantly wanting to flee the scene. 

The last month or two of school, I just let it all go. Of course I was still tearing into their writing--someone had to do that--but the faculty and kids knew we were all one big joke. Our principal at some point finally put up her hands. We were all fed up and ready for it to be June already, but when it was, part of me was not ready to leave. Graduation, while it had its kinks like everything related to my school, was a poignant moment for me. I taught every single one of those kids--most of them for two years. I realized, we did decent work together and they are better writers than when I met them.

And just like that, it was over--the year, my job, my life as I knew it.

So now I'm here, at this place which is called uncertainty. What I know is that I will miss my colleagues more than I can express. You know that saying "There's no atheists in a foxhole"? There aren't, and they gave me something to believe in. I know that I outgrew two unhealthy relationships, and that as hard as it is to leave or to be left, it's for the better. I know this blog was a lifeline for me, and I'm sad to let it go, but it's the right thing to do. Finally, I know that something better is out there, but I don't know where or how to get there, so until then I'm here, and I'm trying to be okay with that.

Through The Eye Of A Needle

(This is an unfinished post from October.)

I'm not necessarily the religious type, but this speaks to me today:

It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.

Who knows if there really were small gates called "the eye of a needle"which people used when the main gates were locked, and who knows if merchants, upon entering the city after dark, really had to unload their sundries and get the camel to crawl so it could pass through this small gate. The point is, this story creates a great metaphor. In life, we are often brought to our knees and locked out for whatever reason. To get "in," we have to unload our baggage and crawl in humility to reach the other side.

These days I feel locked out. I'm at a place where I cannot pass emotionally and physically. Laura's termination cast a shadow on our campus. Our principal's promise to allow our special education teacher to "push in" to our classrooms has gone unfulfilled. The first years and the rest of our faculty--myself included--need far more support than we are receiving. The systemic problems that permeated our campus last year are quickly surfacing again. Actually, they never left. I was just so enchanted with and excited about our group that I didn't see--or maybe I just didn't want to see. And now that these problems are on the surface again, I see my colleagues hitting the wall like I did last year and the year before.

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.  

A Second Act?

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. 

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.

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.

         

Who Am I?

Throwing in the towel is hard to do when there's no place to go.

While a part of me started to suspect the job was not mine, it nonetheless felt like a punch to the gut. Another "more qualified candidate" filled the position. I was sitting in the parking lot of a Walgreens when I read the email. It's never a good thing to receive bad news in a public place.  I started to cry, so I drove away, wondering what I'm supposed to be doing, where I'm supposed to be. While I wanted to flee the scene--have my little breakdown in private--I almost wanted to drive away from my life. A part of me felt--and still feels--like I've made such a mess of my life that I want to start over, wipe the slate clean.

With a month before school resumes, I guess that's what I'm attempting to do. Though I may not have been hired for my dream job, I know there are other places out there. So far I've applied for three other positions and have found five jobs today I'm interested in. One of the applications requires a personal statement addressing who I am and why I'm personally invested in a particular cause. My resume is up-to-date and I've written an amazing cover letter, but I have no idea how to describe who I am.

I could describe what I'm not. I'm not an optimist or an idealist anymore. I don't have any pretenses about next year--that things can get better with a different attitude, that summer break will refresh me and the kids. I'm not a dreamer. Or a fighter. I'm not passionate. Or a believer. I'm most certainly not successful. I've become a person who is operating and existing on survival mode. I'm financially and emotionally broke. I'm lost and experiencing loss. A profound loss.

But I can't say any of that.

In the meantime I guess I just put on this face of contentment, exude this aura of confidence, write about who I want to be. It feels ridiculous, like a child's game of dress-up, but what choice do I have?

I Didn't Get the Job

Emotional Soup

I'm still waiting to hear about the job, if you can believe that. I thought for sure they had already hired someone and not told me, but I sent a follow-up email last week and learned the final decision will be made by the end of this week. Well, it's the end of this week and no word yet, but I'm hoping.

The past few weeks have felt like an emotional soup. I have so many feelings that emerge on the average day. Sometimes while driving to work I will feel very at peace with things or incredibly depressed. Sometimes I feel both in the same car ride. At school I will suddenly feel invigorated and inspired, then become almost hostile. Driving home something will hit me and I'll start tearing up. I don't always know what these emotions are about. I mean I do on the surface, but I know they go deeper than that, like a bunch of tangled roots.

Last Tuesday was our graduation ceremony. Work wife and I met up for lunch since it was a short day, and she accompanied me to the ceremony. I was already on a little high from seeing her and having a real lunch that did not include 100 kids in my hair. Then, once we were back on campus, the faculty and seniors were getting into their gowns, and I felt this twinge of excitement. Seeing everyone cleaned up and dressed so "academically" changed the tone of our normally drab campus. There was a sense of pride and respect that I've never before felt on our campus. Walking into the auditorium was an experience on another level. My kids told me afterwards that there are graduations, and then there are "black graduations," just like there is church and then there is "black church." They are quite correct with that comparison. The parents went nuts. There was so much love and enthusiasm around, and I felt happy. Really and truly happy. That feeling extended throughout the entire ceremony. There was singing and clapping and dancing and preaching and applauding and hugging and rejoicing. I wish that we could have had more moments like that this year.

But then there are the lows. This year, more than ever, I feel them so potently. Because of these volatile ups and downs, I started taking anti-depressants last year, and I've recently re-started talk therapy. My emotions are more than I can handle, and this is nothing I'm ashamed of. In fact, I think the world would be a better place if everyone were in regular therapy. However, I've never really shouted this from such a public forum, but at the same time, I think I need to say this in such a public way. While there are other circumstances in my life that contribute to my depression, my job weighs heavily upon it, and that is a profound statement. While the surface answer is to get another job, that's all easier said than done. I'm working on it, but what happens if I don't? What happens to me then?

The Final Lessons

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.

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.  

Ophelia

My partner and I do not have any human children yet, but we do have little ones whom we call our "furry children," or, in other words, our cats.

One of our cats, Ophelia, has had chronic illness for the past year, and early Friday morning she took a turn for the worse. After a half hour seizure--the one and only she had ever had--we took her to the vet and made the painful decision to put her down.

I can't and don't want to get into the details of her last hours because they are too painful, too raw to recall. And in a way, I cannot shake those images from my mind. They replay themselves over and over again, and I don't know if it's because my mind is trying to process what happened, or if I'm trying to torture myself.

Death is a strange thing to wrap one's mind around. It takes its course whether we yield to it or not. Looking on as she seized, comforting her, talking to her--that was all we could do.  We kept asking, When will this stop? At the vet's office, we held her, talked to her, kissed her, but we knew that wasn't her anymore. There wasn't anything to do except to say Okay, we can let her go.

This feels like a tidal wave--knocking into me, at times drowning me, sucking me in, and rearranging everything as it once was. I see her toys, at times I think I hear her, I watch her little sister smell and search for her, my arms want to grab and hold her, but there's nothing.

I know healing is on the horizon, but at the moment it's devastating. I want to go back in time and stay there with her, petting her, listening to the rhythm of her purr.

Hmm. Okay.

Surveying the Damage

Spring break, in some ways, has been a magical time for me. I've been able to do the things I presume "normal" people do, like make dinner, grocery shop, open mail, pay bills, and sleep. On top of that, I've been able to get my face in the sun, and wow, what a difference it's made. I keep saying over and over again, I feel human again! Day by day I've felt my armor slip away, and this has left me more exposed. This exposure has allowed me to really feel my emotions . . . or recognize the lack thereof. Ironically, the more exposed I am, the more human I feel, the more I realize how un-human I've become.

In the midst of this "happiness," I realize I'm not happy--not totally happy, anyway. I can't be. I'm waiting for the next layoff, the next crisis, the next fill-in-the-blank. Not only am I not happy, I'm not anything. I've become this machine that just operates--functions--fulfills the daily quota. I teach my lessons, I grade my papers, I discipline, I go home, I get up, and I do it all over again. This is a childhood coping mechanism I learned around the age of ten or eleven, and this is what I did to survive. I put my head down and got the job done. The emotions around me were irrelevant. Sure, maybe I felt melancholy or outraged or terrified, but at the end of the day, feeling wasn't going to get me out of my situation. Work--movement--was going to propel me forward. While this coping mechanism gets me through my day, it works a little too well. When I go home, when it's safe to feel and to be exposed, I can't. So this is what I've become--an overworked, overused childhood coping mechanism . . . a shell of a human being.

As I approach my mid-30s, I see my life more for what it is rather than for what I hope it to be. I see what I've accomplished and what I haven't. I'm not ashamed to say, This is it? This is what I am? I thought I'd be more, do more. In my 20s I thought I was special. I guess we all think that as we emerge from our universities, diploma in hand. I thought I somehow possessed the answer, as if there was one answer to anything, and as if I somehow was the only one who held this answer. I don't have an answer to anything, and I don't care about finding one. I just want to be happy. I just want to feel peace. I want to detach from my career, not from myself.

Where To Go From Here

This school year started on a more optimistic note despite the layoffs and merger. I'd have only 11th graders, I'd be teaching American Lit--which I've taught before--and I'd have AP Lit. On top of that, there'd be no pigeons in my room pooping down the wall, and I'd have my own classroom where I could actually decorate. Even more, some of the kids I'd stayed for would be my students again. In some ways, I started the school year from a position of power because I decided to stay, and I essentially created my own reason: my AP kids and my AP class.

In spite of all of this, I'm back at square one again. My American Lit classes, while no longer 37 students each, present the same problem as last term. The students are beyond lacking in skills and totally unmotivated. Ironically, this problem is invading my AP class. What started as a group of 32 has whittled down to 11. In theory, these 11 are the most motivated, talented and capable students, but on a given day, only three or four show they are ready to accept the challenge of this course. With the AP exam less than two months away, that just doesn't work.

While unmotivated students are just part of the high school teacher's landscape, this problem is more complex. The apathy is so pervasive. It's not just the three knuckleheads in the corner--it's 75-80% of my students. Let me put it this way. My American Lit kids are working on an essay about Death of a Salesman. I chunk every part of the essay for them, and each day comes with a mini-lesson, a handout, a teacher exemplar and a conference. I wish a teacher in high school had done all I do for them when it comes to writing. We started this process a week ago this past Friday; their essay is due this Monday. That means they had over a week to work on this, and an entire week of class to work on their essay. This past Friday, most of them were still working on their intro. Really?

Each day I find myself questioning my own actions. Do I really want to stay up until 11pm working on this lesson when I already know what results it will yield? Is this really worth cutting into my time at home with my family? Should I really take 15 minutes to grade this essay and provide meaningful feedback when I know this kid spent thirty minutes writing this?

These thoughts are on the surface, but bubbling underneath are the larger issues that remain with me--the layoffs, the merger, my car and a more recent situation. I've debated whether or not I should write about this, but I've come to the conclusion other teachers have faced this, and I want them to know they are not alone.

A few weeks ago, a student and I were at a standstill over her cell phone. This should not be as I have very clear guidelines about the use of electronics in my class, and I had this student last year. She and I had a fine rapport. In fact, we had a great rapport. Something changed this year, and there was constant attitude and defiance over this phone for a period of about two weeks, so I conferenced with the parent. My expectations and consequences were very clear, but the following day in class her behavior was the same. On this day, I told her she was not leaving class without handing over the phone. She replied with several rude comments, and when I could not reach my admin, I released all students but her. As this was the last class of the day, I planned on keeping her a few minutes until one of my admin could come and take the phone. However, that's not what happened.

What started as an attempt to confiscate a phone turned into something very ugly. This student tried to move past me and go for the door, and I was just so sick of all of it. I was so tired of doing battle with her attitude and defiance. I was so over the phone. This student was not above the rules, and I wasn't going to let her move past me, walk out the door with her phone and assume she was above the rules. I grabbed for her phone which was in her shirt pocket, and she immediately jumped back and screamed, accusing me of touching her. She then proceed to get out her phone and call her mother, telling her mother I touched her. I was stunned and asked her if she was out of her mind. I can't remember the last time I was this angry. I was shaking, my face and ears were hot, and I could feel tears rising to the surface. I called for my admin again, and thankfully one of them responded. He came to my room immediately and took over for me. He confiscated her phone, escorted her out of my room, and I fell into my chair at my desk.

This is every teacher's worst nightmare, and I somehow thought this could never happen to me. How naive. I ran through the sequence of events again, and of course I realized at that moment what I did wrong. I should have never grabbed for her phone, and I should have never left myself alone with a student. While those were my errors, why on earth would she accuse me of something so heinous? Cuss me out, tell me you hate me--but this? My mind went to the worse case scenario, which is not difficult to imagine with all the recent scandals in the media. I sat at my desk shocked, and that shock moved quickly to devastation. I started sobbing. Then, my principal called me. I hadn't left a voicemail and she wanted to know if everything was okay. I told her no, then sobbed through the whole story. Luckily my admin supported me. The student was suspended and permanently removed from my class. She apparently has a track record for lying, and I guess the jig is up because she has yet to return to school.

Driving home that evening I was so quiet. Normally my mind is racing, thinking about this or that, but that evening I was still. No radio. No phone. Just me and my feelings, and boy did I feel. Did this student know all the ramifications that come with an accusation like that? No, but did she know enough? Yes. This felt like that day with my car. Both were so personal, but the difference with this situation is that the damage was on the inside, and I certainly wasn't going to wait around for eight months for this to be made right.

That day something snapped inside me. While I was--and still am--devastated that a student I've worked with for two school years would turn on my like this, I'm just so done. I'm tired of being a pawn in someone else's game. I refuse to be manipulated anymore by budgets, by admin, by students, by parents. Though all work environments have their politics, the emotional demands of this profession and my current work environment have shaded the way I see the world, and not for the better. I'm guarded, I'm quiet, I'm bitter, I'm untrusting, I'm pessimistic, I'm emotionally numb. This is not who I am at the core, and to save myself, I need to get out, but the question is, where do I go from here? If I'm not in the classroom, where am I?

Passing the Baton

Hard to believe an entire month went by without a post. January was a whirlwind that I can barely recall. After coming back from winter break, I had just two and a half weeks to prepare the kids for finals. After exams, the new term began the following week. Luckily for me the preparation was minimal since I was teaching the same courses. AP continues on and American Literature starts over. However, that means I get all the kids who failed my course, which is a lot. 58% to be exact. That number is according to one of my principals, but I think it may be higher. I'm not thrilled about getting all the kids who just failed my class, but I do feel like this could be a sort of second chance. I've blogged multiple times about how this class was like this wall--no way through to them no matter what I did. Well, at least that's how I perceived them, but try telling that to my principal.

In fact, I had a meeting with her about a week ago regarding that exact topic. It was sort of like a more mellow version of the meeting from hell. She asked me if I was aware of my fail rate and if it alarmed me and if I have a plan for fixing it. I was on the defense, and in truth I had every right to be. Part of me feels as if my job is on the line because of the number of students who have failed my class. She says many parents have called complaining about their child's grade and she has encouraged them to come in and speak to me. I tried to maintain my composure, because inside I was thinking, "And what in the hell am I supposed to do? The term ended two weeks ago. This is so after the fact! Where was the concern a month ago?" Don't get me wrong. A parent is a teacher's--and a child's--best ally, but really, how are you going to occupy my time before and after school with all these meetings about something that is done and over with? Anyway, it was a more mellow meeting because there was no yelling and because it was 7:30 in the morning, but inside I was steaming. I have now told her twice what I see as the reason the kids aren't passing, and that I don't know how to fix it so I need support from her, and both times I've walked away with a list of things to do. Support comes in the form of meetings where I'm given more work. I will say, though, that I had two parent meetings with one of my principals present in each meeting. In the one meeting my principal from last year attended, she told the student and his parents that he needs to step up his game and that as a junior who is lacking many of the basics, he needs to be in tutoring if he expects to pass. That is essentially what I told my other principal, who in her meeting conveyed that instead I need to step up my game. At least I have one administrator on my side.

Moments like these make me question, am I crazy? Are my expectations really that high? Who is right--me or them? Hillary, who is now my TA one period a day, reaffirms that I am not crazy. She recently released some pent up frustration over grading some timed writings from my American Lit classes, and as I listened to her, I almost thought I was listening to a recording of myself: "These kids can't write! How have they been passed on to 11th grade? This is like middle school writing! Where are the parents?" In fact, she is sometimes harsher than I. What I love about her honesty is that she can walk up to the kids and say things I cannot. After grading some homework, she called a student over and asked him why his homework looked the way it did: "Did you do this like five minutes before class started? What's wrong with you that you can't spend thirty minutes at home doing this the right way? What grade are you in? Do you want to graduate on time? What are you so busy doing that you can't pass this class?"

In her most recent tirade of honesty, she and another AP student of mine--Tamara--decided they wanted to talk to one of my classes about their writing. After a round of grading timed writings, Hillary shared with Tamara the extent of the students' poor writing skills. They came up with a plan: type up some essays so the entire class can see the poor grammar and mechanics, read them aloud so the students can hear the poor grammar and mechanics, show exemplar essays they (Hillary and Tamara) have written so the students can see and hear what their writing should look like, and finally, implore the kids to take ownership over their own learning and writing. Hillary and Tamara did this all of their own accord, and while part of me was just so amazed by their initiative and concern, another part of me wanted to break down and cry. Really?! I get more support from my 11th grade AP students than I do from one of my principals?!

The following day, I felt like a proud parent watching the two of them talk to my American Lit kids. Did they totally get through to them? No, but they said some things that needed to be said. Some of the kids giggled about the mistakes in the grammar and mechanics, and Tamara and Hillary shut them down immediately. They told them it's not funny--that they will be judged by their ability to communicate, and right now in their essays, they all look and sound dumb. They need to get their shit together or they won't graduate. Their apathy is bringing down the junior class, and they (Hillary and Tamara) work so hard and don't appreciate their dead weight. While some educators may chide me for letting Tamara and Hillary speak so freely, I know I made the right decision. Someone had to put it out there and call it by its name. We educators tip-toe around the issues, afraid of hurting a child's concept of self. We would rather our kids feel good, move on to the next grade, even graduate, than read or write. At the end of the day, it's true, and it took two 17 year-olds to really get me to see that's what's going on. While I think it's sad that they felt they had to give this speech since they knew no one else would, I'm so incredibly proud of them. It takes a lot of guts to get in front of one's peers and say this is not good enough . . . and I guess I have to take their example and do the same.

Found

Last night I had a very profound experience and the strangest dream. I had to share both here. Neither has anything to do with the classroom, or maybe they do. You be the judge.

Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.

One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.

For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.

Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.

I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.

Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.

A Year in Review

I'm officially on winter break, and I'm oh-so relieved! The weeks leading up to this break often seem the longest, and I could equate the feeling with walking through Jell-O after several alcoholic beverages.

Sunday morning I flew to my hometown in the Midwest, and my mind is all over the place. The time difference and the jet lag are perhaps to blame, but more than that I'm reflecting on this year--what it was and what it wasn't.

This past year was about surviving. Let me rephrase: All of last school year was about surviving. I dodged two rounds of layoffs.

This past year was about fighting back. A year and three days ago, my car was damaged by an angry student. That was the last straw for me, and the moment I became my own advocate. In a way, this is an illustration of skewed values. I will allow my soul to be damaged, but not my car, yet this fight to repair my car allowed me to reclaim some of myself. It took hundreds of emails and nine months, but this is a victory--maybe the only victory--I won.   

This past year was about moments of thriving. Becoming an AP teacher allowed me to feel glimmers of my true teacher self--glimmers of meaningful, profound interactions. I've watched a small group of students push themselves and emerge as true intellectuals.

This year--or at least the last half of this year--was not about community. After my pre-merger school disbanded, the community I had with my fellow teachers dissolved with my former school. I've felt isolated this year, even in my own classroom.

This year was not about teaching. So much of my time is spent disciplining and redirecting, that the amount I really spend teaching is at such a minimal. This is true even in my AP class. I hate this feeling because it renders me purposeless. If I'm not teaching, why am I there?  

This year was not about excelling. Between the discipline issues and the general insanity of our school (no internet for three weeks, no paper, no books, etc.), an okay, mundane, status quo day is good enough. While complacency will save me mental and emotional energy, this is not enough.


Yesterday I went to the grocery store to get a few items, and I was thrown by what I saw. A man came through the aisle I was in with a broom and dust pan. As he walked past me, he spotted one coffee bean. One. Rather than leave it, he swept it up. That's pride. That's respect. For him and for his job. I want to feel that, and I want the kids to feel that. But how? 

The Why is Always the Hardest Part