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.  

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?

Depression

It's been ten days since my last post. Ten long days. Spring break is about a month away, and it can't come soon enough. Juggling three different grade levels and curriculum on an accelerated schedule is unmanageable. This past week I've stood before my students totally unprepared and "winging it." While in the past I've done that--scrapped a lesson plan and let the students' interest guide the day's discussion or the topic of study--this is not like before. This is "I'm going on four or five hours of sleep and I'm trying to read three novels simultaneously and develop lesson plans and grade essays and homework and I'm too exhausted to do it all so something has to give."

On top of my day-to-day work struggles, I have another battle I'm fighting. I'm going to go out on a limb here and be more honest with you than I've probably ever been before. I've fought depression since my adolescence, but since my early twenties, my mood and outlook have been steady and optimistic. Two years ago, when I lost my job, that all changed, and today, as I stand against waves of uncertainty in my professional life, my personal life is taking a beating. My depression is back and in full force in a way it hasn't been in a long, long time.

There were many situations when I was a child that rendered me powerless. My teachers were my protectors; my education was my escape. Becoming a teacher was a not-so-obvious next step for me, but once my career started, it all made sense to me--my classroom was a place of empowerment for me. I wrapped up my identity in who I was to my students, so when I lost my job and the "teacher" was stripped from me, I didn't know who I was. I didn't know where to find that empowerment.

Now that I am back in the classroom, a place of betrayal, in a sense, there is part of me that feels like a powerless child. My work environment mimics a place and pattern I know all too well--instability, chaos, hurt--in other words, the need to protect and flee. Only I'm the adult, and there are 30 or so children depending on me.

Since December, I've been back on anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication. While both are helping me keep my head above water, I know they are only a band-aid to the larger issue. There's a lot of healing and rebuilding to be done, and at times I don't know where to start. While I need to find another job, I question if I can continue a profession that requires so much of me personally.

Like a Dark Comedy Minus the Comedy

Today is the last day of school, marking the beginning of a much-needed two-week winter break. We are all beyond exhausted, but today served as a beacon of hope. "Just make it to Friday," became our mantra this past week. We passed each other in the halls, flashing four fingers, then three, than two, to indicate how many days we had left. Truthfully, I think we were more excited about today than the kids. And finally, Friday is here.

The school day flew by, and before I knew it, I was at my school's parking lot, walking to my car. I envisioned myself going home to do laundry then pack for my flight tomorrow afternoon. I am going back to my hometown for break, and all I've been thinking about is seeing old friends and family.

Then I saw it: my car was keyed from front to back on both sides. One long gouge right through the middle of my car on the left and right side, the right side being deeper. My heart sank, and the tears--right below the surface lately--streamed down my face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe a student, or anyone for that matter, would do something like this to me.

Because our school is so small, and because everyone knows everyone, our students all know what kind of car each teacher drives. The attack was personal and directed towards me, and I'm 90% sure I know which student did this. I've always had a great rapport with my kids, and while I don't have as strong of a relationship with them as I've had with past students, it's one of my strengths as a teacher. In fact, I pride myself on my rapport and classroom climate. This violation of my car, my property, me felt like a punch in the gut, like a "NO" in red pen, like a "Fuck you."

After taking pictures, I filed a report with my school, then my principal said I needed to make the call home to the student I suspected. I told her I had called earlier today about an issue he had in my class and left a message, but she said I needed to make a second call about my car. Perplexed and trying not to cry, I did as she said. Thankfully I got the mother's voice mail, because I don't think I could have maintained my composure and had an actual conversation. Driving home, though, I became angry not only because of my car, but because of my principal's response. Why did I have to call? Wasn't I the person victimized in this situation? And didn't she just totally throw me under the bus in the heat of the moment? If that student's mother had picked up, I would have been yelling or sobbing on the other line, and there's no telling how she would have reacted.

All this has left a bitter taste in my mouth. It makes me want to never come back to that place. Now I feel like I have to guard myself from the kids, as if they all hold keys in their hands ready to dig in at any moment while my principal looks on.

Stressed Much?

With our recent holiday, I decided to give myself a much-needed break from all things teaching. While my break was fun and restful, I have to admit that my heart was heavy much of the time. It was hard for me to mentally leave school and all its problem.

Nothing illustrated that more than waking up Friday morning and not being able to move my left arm more than a foot beyond my waist. At first I thought I slept on it funny, then as the day progressed, I thought I had injured a muscle or even a tendon. I winced trying to do dishes or change clothes. Saturday and Sunday were no different in spite of ibuprofen, ice, and heat.

Sunday evening I was a lucky recipient of a massage--a gift beyond all gifts. While the massage therapist worked on my arm, I could feel her grab a hold of several knots encasing my left shoulder. I'm sure I'm exaggerating, but they felt like they were the size of small eggs. As she pressed on them, small electrical charges ran down my left arm and all the way up my neck to the base of head. No muscle injury or tendon tear. Just plain full out stress.

Sprawled out on that table, I felt like a sucker. My job is doing this to me, and I'm responsible for letting it do this to me. I don't have a lot of fight left in me, but I have enough fight to believe I deserve more. 

I called on a friend late last night, and we met up today. She was a mentor teacher to me at my last school, and returning to her and to a place that was a teaching home before my layoff was, for lack of a better phrase, like a homecoming. I felt like I could breathe, like I could let my guard down, like I could pull my shoulders from my ears and actually be honest. I looked her in the eye--this person who I admire and who helped me become what I am as a teacher--and said, "I don't know if I can do this anymore." I cried a little, talked a lot; she listened and gave advice, but more than anything she was present.

I'm reminded why she was, and continues to be, a mentor teacher. I walked away this evening remembering I'm a good teacher. I'm not right now because of circumstances, but I'm damn good at what I do, and it's not my fault that my school is in utter disaster mode every single day. All I can do is get out. I choose my profession over my job. I choose reclaiming myself.

"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.

47%

That is the percentage of students who failed my class--9th and 11th combined.  That number is utterly confounding and depressing, and I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to blame the kids for not doing their job, part of me wants to blame our charter organization for the mid-year schedule change or lack of resources, and part of me wants to blame myself for not doing enough. But at the end of the day, that number remains like a flag hanging outside a burning building. Now it's up to the rescuers to decide if they see that flag or not. Interpret that flag how you will--47%, overall lack of resources, low morale--it's all a symptom of the larger problem. The question now is how much longer can we scream for help before the fire consumes?

The Ups and Downs of Teaching Part II

The events of the prior week weighed heavily on me, so I started this week in a weird, for lack of a better term, place.

Monday morning, the chair of all the ELA (English Language Arts) teachers for our charter organization delivered copies of The Bluest Eye. Not the actual books, but copies she made for me, so that put me at ease. One more thing I can cross off my worry list is always a plus. As she was leaving, she said she wanted to meet with me later in the week. We set up a date which I promptly forgot, because when I saw her in my room during my planning period the other day, I said, "Hey, that's right, we're meeting!"

We sat down and discussed the midterms the kids are taking on Friday. When I showed her the midterms I stayed up until 12:30 am writing the night before, I felt like I was standing naked before her. Perhaps that sounds like an odd comparison, but teaching is a profession where emotions and lives are on the line, and all of us, each and everyday, are vulnerable at a certain point. As she read though my questions, I heard, "These are too hard; you're asking questions you can answer, not them; this doesn't make sense; the wording is off; there are too many recall questions." I felt like maybe I don't know what I'm doing, and while I needed to hear this, I still wanted to flee the scene and hide.

"It's garbage, huh?" Self-deprecation is my coping mechanism when that nakedness, that vulnerability become too much.

"No," she responded, "it's not garbage, and I didn't drive across town to tell you that. We're going to work on this together and fix it. Writing exams is really hard and it takes practice." Suddenly she was the teacher and I the student, and I felt for my kids who were turning in essays this week and probably thinking the same thing.

By the time my ELA chair left, I had a better handle on writing exams, but my lesson plan was literally a wash. The review PowerPoint I made was no longer relevant, and my 9th graders were walking in the room. In a matter of five minutes, I created a lesson in my head--the kids would work in groups to write questions they think I should ask on the exam, and if their question gets picked, they get extra credit. As the kids worked together--and worked together well--I surprised myself. How did I do that? How did I think that up in just a few minutes? I talked to the groups about how test questions work. I told them the same thing my ELA chair told me--it's hard, but doing this will help you get better at tests.

Later that day, I found myself echoing the same message, except this time about writing. I had five kids that evening stay after to work on their essays--one until 5:45pm. For those of you who are not teachers, that's a rare thing when kids choose you over their personal time, and particularly when I've had the 9th graders for only 3 1/2 weeks. That moment took me aback, because I feel like I spend so much time yelling and talking at kids that I rarely get to connect to them and talk to them. And in that moment, there was connection and learning and intrinsic motivation and personal pride, and it was a feeling I've not felt with a group of students in a really, really long time.

And my 11th graders? Well, there's been a shift since my one student shared her history of sexual abuse. We're a tighter group--almost family-like. That feeling is also something I've not felt with students in a really, really long time. In teacher lingo, you have students or you have kids. And their yours or not. When a teacher refers to their students as "the students," that indicates distance, but when a teacher refers to them as "my kids," that indicates a personal investment--their yours. My 11th graders are my kids. And the crazy thing is that what has allowed me to let my guard down and be vulnerable and have kids and not students is a student. When my student put herself out there like that, I realized I had to be the adult and do the same thing. I have to let go of all of my fears about losing my job again, I have to stop being angry about the schedule change and the toner, and I have to remember that I do know what I'm doing and I am a teacher. Something I did allowed her to be vulnerable, something I did encouraged five kids to stay after school, something I did gave way to kids writing exam questions.

I could go make coffee again and not take work home and not be ultra stressed, or I could stay in education and make a difference in the lives of young people. Next week I may have a different answer, but this week I am a teacher.

The Ups and Downs of Teaching Part I

It's been way too long since I last posted, but here I am finally. I want to talk about the last week and a half, because it's a roller coaster I am still trying to comprehend.

Last week ended with me being just about ready to throw in the towel. My juniors are reading The Bluest Eye, and they are in love with it. The books have not arrived yet, so that means I have to copy pages from my own book. However, when the toner ran out on Monday the 1st and was not replaced until this past Monday the 8th, I felt totally paralyzed. They wanted to read and move on, but I couldn't get the copies. (I thought about going to Kinkos, but the last time I did that, I forked over $65 with the teacher discount.) So I improvised--stretching it out as much as I could.

In the meantime, we had some amazing discussions. This novel has struck a nerve with my mostly African-American students. So I played on what they know, and even shared a New York Times editorial about the film, Precious. As we began to compare the film and Morrison's book, one of my students shared that she had been sexually abused. The room was so silent, and I tried to conceal my utter shock. The student shared her abuse happened in the past, and she had never told anyone aside from her family. She went on to say films like Precious or books like Morrison's are what give people the strength to share dark moments like hers. It was one of those rare moments when emotional and intellectual merge, and even after years of experience in the classroom, I wonder if I did that moment justice. The personal me wanted to have a one-on-one conversation with my student, then hug her and cry for her. The teacher me wanted to say to the class, "If any of you breathe a word of this outside these walls, so help me God!" Then the teacher me wanted to tie my student's personal history into what we were reading. What wound up really happening was a little bit of all of the above, and I just hope I did it justice.

Over the weekend, I thought a lot about that student, and I thought a lot about the current state of my job. I love teaching. I really do. And I love helping young people like that student, but there are days, and there are weeks, where I feel like the classroom is an adventure enough. I don't want to know what it's like to not have books or a copier and have to think on the fly. These were the very thoughts I was sorting through at the grocery store when I pulled the shopping cart up to my car and saw a flier and a business card on my windshield. I was the only car on the lot with the flier and card, so I was a little thrown until I read both. A friend of mine is opening his own Starbucks. We worked together at Starbucks years ago when I was in-between teaching jobs, and now he is a manager of a new store. I have to say this gave me pause. I recalled what it's like to not bring work home, and I remembered a work environment where the biggest stress was getting hot lattes out to the morning rush. Was this more significant than just a friend letting me know about his new promotion?