The Personal-ness of Teaching

Something else your teacher education programs will never tell you is how personal your work can become. I've been doing a lot of thinking in the past two weeks about my purpose--in and outside the classroom. In my last post, I discussed my conscious decision to stay at my school despite all that went on last year, and while much of that decision had to do with my kids and my AP class, I think something greater than that is at work.

Our first quarter just ended, and on Monday all teachers had to report to school for a meeting with both our principals while the students had the day off. (My school has two principals--my principal from last year's pre-merger school and the principal who has directed my post-merger school for the past two years.) I thought this would be a time for us to strategize and collaborate, but instead our meeting served as a time and place for one of our principals to unload her frustration and disappointment. She's unhappy with the number of Fs the students have, and in her opinion, if we have so many Fs, the teachers did not teach. If these numbers do not change, we will find ourselves out of a job. I was fuming to put it mildly. How dare she threaten us with our jobs after all that happened last year? Each day we wonder about another layoff or another merger, and the person who is supposed to be one of our leaders is hanging our livelihood over our heads? After a tense minute of silence, she passed out a report to each teacher which detailed the number of students with each letter grade, then asked, "So no one has anything to say?!" I didn't take that as a rhetorical question, and muttered, "I'm keeping my mouth shut."

For a moment I wanted to cry. I thought we were all in this together. Apparently not. Then I looked at the report. There wasn't anything on there I didn't know. I look at my grade book each day. I know 60% of my students have Fs. My mind flashed to an interaction I had with a student about two weeks before. This student from one of my American Lit classes came to talk to me about something during lunch. I was sitting at my desk which is by my window where I have several pictures and my framed "Teacher of the Year" certificate. The student glanced at the certificate and asked, as if in disbelief, "Teacher of the year?" I nodded, and her face asked, 'How could you possibly deserve this award? You haven't taught us anything.' As I emerged from my reverie, our principal reiterated that if this many students are failing, she doesn't care what we were doing--we weren't teaching. Plain and simple. The tears pooled and were on the brink of running down my cheek. She and my student must be right.

My principal from last year arrived about ten minutes into this lecture, and I've never been so happy to see her in my life. While I've criticized her neutrality in the past, it's this very quality that deescalated the heat in our meeting. I don't know exactly what she said, but she was her usual diplomatic self and her words temporarily bandaged my open wounds. However, that didn't stop me from crying on the way home from work on Monday or making the rest of this week a wash. Tuesday I attempted to have a reflective conversation with the kids about quarter one, and while it worked in AP, it fell apart in my American Lit classes. I've often had these conversations with kids, so I know how to scaffold them--journal, then small group, then large group. It just didn't work. Thursday, most of my AP kids hadn't read, so I sat down at my desk and graded, not teaching at all. Over and over again I've asked myself out loud and in my mind--What am I doing? Hillary says I can't leave our school or her until she graduates, but honestly, What am I doing?

Oprah Winfrey, in her series Master Class, talks about authentic power. It's a power that comes from within--when one's personality serves one's soul--and because it comes from within, no external factor can shake it or tear it down. My power is all external, and I know that because I'm rendered powerless, particularly with my American Lit classes. They are, in many ways, my worst fear. They are failing and unresponsive and apathetic. They don't like me, and they don't like my class. While in one breath my AP students reinforce the idea of who I believe I am, my American Lit students shatter it. When I look at their vacant faces, I know I'm a bad teacher. This dynamic reminds me of my dysfunctional childhood because my mind always wavered between two messages--my own, which said I was a good person, or my stepfather's, who said I wasn't. Each day I tried to build myself up, but his towering voice and stature always won. But I'm not a scared eleven-year-old anymore. I can't change those kids, so I have to change myself; I'm just not sure how. Maybe that's why I'm still here--to stare down this shadow once and for all.

A Series of Firsts

I've really missed this place and it feels good to be back. Unlike last last year, I've been busy, but busy good for once.

The last time I posted I was still raw, and in many ways I still am. Each day I feel the absence of my colleagues, my friends, and while I may get used to it, I won't get over it. The first day of school--and I'll tell you about that shortly--I talked to my students about my feelings. I got choked up and almost started crying, but they got it. They saw how we were with one another, with them, and they recognize the loss. During lunch, several students will hang out in my room. I joke that it's a displaced student camp because all the students are former (the name of my pre-merger school) students. But it's nice because we can reminisce about the "old days," bonding in unexpected ways and keeping the spirit of what we were alive.

So, our first week at school--any school for that matter--is PD (professional development). Some schools I've worked at have meaningful PD, others not so much. This year was the not so much category. All schools gathered that first Monday, and it was a lot of bla, bla, bla, then we were told all other PD for the week will be at our school sites. That PD was basically setting up our rooms. However, during that Monday, all of us from my pre-merger school were able to see one another--with the exception of two colleagues who are still looking for employment--and that was amazing. We all sat together and it felt, for a second, like we were still a team.

It's a tradition for my charter organization, during this Monday, to award the teacher of the year for each school. The woman who introduces this part of the ceremony--if you want to call it that--is our chief academic officer, and she is the only person from the central office who has recognized or verbalized what has happened to us. Her word for the layoffs, the merger, the nuttiness of last year is "sketchy." She explained that things were sketchy last year, but some teachers excelled and went above and beyond in spite of this, then she had the principal of each school come up and announce their teacher.

I thought for sure it would be my colleague who taught history last year. He was a first year teacher, and he was teaching AP, two other history classes, art, student council; he was finishing his masters; he broke up multiple fights and caught several kids doing drugs. This poor guy--I don't know how he's still teaching. Last year really took a toll on him, but he was never bitter like I was. I was expecting to hear his name when my principal said mine. I felt like those actresses who win the Academy Award and look around to see who won, when really, they won. I don't remember what my principal said, but I walked up to the stage and gave her a hug.

It was a bittersweet moment for me. That's a trite phrase, but that's the perfect phrase. I've never been recognized in that way by a school I've worked for, and it felt good for someone to say in such a public way, "You matter, and what you do matters." That was the sweet part. The bitter part was that last year my dear friend, my work wife, won this award for our school. I wanted to celebrate with her, with our staff, but that wasn't to be. In a way, I felt like we all deserved this award for what we went through. In another way, I wondered if I deserved it all. Reflecting back on last year, all the thoughts I've vented on here, and the many others which did not make it on here, would a teacher of the year think or say or believe those things? My former colleagues were really happy for me, telling me I deserved this award, then we parted ways.

We all went back to our school site (that is another blog entry), and this year I'm happy to report that I'm sans pigeons, though I will miss the joke that I have the smartest pigeons in the metropolitan area. And, for the first time in two years, I am able to have out all my fun school stuff. Last year I shared my room and it was always unlocked. Things would go missing all the time, so I never had out all my decorations, and the year before that my materials were in storage since I was unemployed. This year my room is me--it has my books, my posters, my desk decorations, my stool. My room is clean, and the door gets locked at night, so I return and it looks exactly the same.

Everything was set up perfect, just the way I wanted, so the only thing I was waiting for was my students. I think all teachers, no matter how long they've been teaching, get butterflies that first Monday. We wonder if they will like us, if we will like them, and that's normally what I am concerned about, but this year I was wondering if they were even coming back. Our new school site is quite far from where our previous site was--probably 15 or more miles. All our students take public transportation, unless their parents can drive them, and I thought for sure they would find a school closer to home. I was devastated at this thought, particularly with my AP class. I spent all summer preparing for them, and I was convinced that these kids, the ones who I said I would come back for, weren't coming back. If they weren't there, why stay? Why have AP if the children I built this program around weren't coming?

When I opened my door second period, that first Monday morning, I heard shrieks. I thought a fight was breaking out right outside my room. Instead, I was bombarded by hugs. "I missed you!' "I couldn't wait for this class to start!" "I'm so excited about this class!" They all came back. Literally, every single student who was supposed to be in that class is there. I couldn't believe it. And they were so happy to see me and to see each other. For the first time in a long time I felt like things might, for a second, be okay.

"Professional" Development

Each week I find myself violently swinging between "I can't do this anymore" to "maybe I can hang in for just a bit longer." This week was no exception. Early in the week I was planning my departure from the teaching profession. The tip of the iceberg? Professional development. Excuse me--"professional" development.

Every other week the kids are released early so teachers can meet by school, department, or grade level and receive on-going training for a variety of purposes. It's a nice idea, but the purposes rarely meet the needs of the teachers. This week was the definitive example.

Since this was the first time we've met since our recent schedule change, I thought for certain we would discuss how to plan, pace, grade more effectively, because all of us are struggling with the new 4X4 model. Not only were we not able to discuss the issues we are all having, we were given yet one more thing added to our plate. Are you ready for this? Here it is--our charter's response to professional development while we are in crisis mode: an internet-based program guaranteed to raise our test scores . . . but none of our campuses have a class set of computers or reliable internet connectivity.

At the meeting, I wanted to fall out of my chair laughing. The poor women who were sent to present this program had the deer in headlights look. Neither of them were educated on our 25% budget cut, our reduction in staff, our schedule change, and our dire lack of resources, so when they asked us to remain positive, I replied, "Oh honey, we're past positivity." Of course, they could not show us how the program worked because they were on one of our high school campuses, that of course, has internet connectivity issues. Welcome to our world, I thought.

It was all very hilarious for a moment until I started to think of what this must be costing--someones salary, or more. And on top of that, this is the answer? This is how you're "helping" us and using my precious time? We all started to ask questions: Do you realize we only have our current students until the end of January? If we only have eight student computers on our campus, how is this supposed to work? Will we be getting better internet service? When are we supposed to find time to train ourselves on this program? Do you realize we don't even have enough books for our kids? They, of course, had no response, other than, "Your charter organization is dedicated to making this program work, so they must have a plan to obtain the resources." How could these women have a real response? They had no idea what they were walking into--a group of over-worked, exhausted, angry teachers who were expecting some real solutions, advice, or empathy. Instead, we got a slap in the face and a reminder that no one is here to help us, really.

Each day I try to decide if I want to beat my head against this brick wall anymore. The answer is, "I don't know." I started this blog as a way to cope and as a way to educate the public about what education really looks like. Too often America sees images of failing schools, burnt out teachers who don't care, or that extraordinary teacher who defies the odds, but they don't see what happens to the everyday teachers who care but are caught in the middle. But now, I'm starting to see this blog as a diary . . . a place to put my inner-most thoughts and feelings about my profession--a profession I once considered me. Teacher used to be an adjective to describe me, not a noun or title. As a teacher, I was going to change my kids and the world around them. Now, I don't recognize my profession. It has betrayed me, and our meeting this week was the last straw. It does not care what is happening to me, my colleagues, or my kids, but at least I have my answer now--the fire will consume. And no one will come.