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.
Showing posts with label surrendering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surrendering. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Work Wife
There are so many heartbreaking aspects of this merger, but today I want talk about one in particular: my work wife. She was the Spanish teacher at my school, and an amazing one at that.
We became friends instantaneously--probably the moment I saw a Starbucks cup in her hand. She was a returning teacher this past year, so she had years of the crazy under her belt. Right away she gave me the scoop on all I needed to know. The first few weeks I followed her lead: if she was panicked, I was panicked, and if she wasn't, I tried not to be panicked.
As I mentioned in previous posts, we did not have a faculty lounge or an unoccupied place to go after school. All our classrooms were filled with students and teachers working on the next play or rehearsing the next choir or band performance--except for my friend's classroom. At the end of the day, we all piled into her room, and while it took me awhile to get used to being around people all the time and never having a moment of silence, I realize now that is how we all became so close. We were literally shoved together, first physically, then emotionally.
Those moments after school became what I looked forward to. We had our routine. She sat at her desk, I sat at a table or a student desk next to her, and we both tutored our students. Because we shared many students, we tag-teamed if our kids ever gave us trouble. That only deepened our bond. After the kids and other teachers wandered away for the evening, we stayed, just for a bit. We talked about our day, venting about a stressful situation or relishing in a light bulb moment. At times we shared our worries, complained about the instability of our school, but we laughed too. And we always ended the day by walking out to our cars together and giving each other a hug.
As the year wore on, our friendship grew stronger. We had "grading dates," taking our work to Starbucks. If a student wrote a really amazing essay or created a fantastic project in Spanish, we shared with each other. We talked about our mutual students, and if a student earned praise or reprimanding, that student received double. It felt natural, like this was the way it always was and always would be.
My partner called her my work wife. The students even started to see us as a pair. Some of them started to refer to us as "the homies," asking us, "Are you eating lunch with your homie today?" or "Why is your homie on my case about my English grade?" A few of my "homie's" students who called her "Mom" started to call me "Auntie." As funny as this was, I felt that sisterhood with her. On the days where I could not find any reason to get out of bed and go to school, I remembered my friend. She gave me confidence and stability in a place that was barren of both.
The news of last week, the loss of my work wife, has me reeling. I'm devastated for our students who called her "Mom," for our students who she's inspired. Her unrelenting push for excellence brought out the best in our kids. I think we all taught to a higher level because of her. She reminded us never to wane in our position, no matter how much the kids complained. I'm devastated for her, because she lost her job. After five years of service and "teacher of the year," shouldn't our charter organization beg her to stay? And selfishly, I'm devastated for me. If anything, this situation has strengthened our friendship, but I don't want to know what it's like to not work aside my friend. She was the calm and the strength in the storm. She was the hope and the light in the darkness, and the powers that be have extinguished that from the students and the teachers who remain.
We became friends instantaneously--probably the moment I saw a Starbucks cup in her hand. She was a returning teacher this past year, so she had years of the crazy under her belt. Right away she gave me the scoop on all I needed to know. The first few weeks I followed her lead: if she was panicked, I was panicked, and if she wasn't, I tried not to be panicked.
As I mentioned in previous posts, we did not have a faculty lounge or an unoccupied place to go after school. All our classrooms were filled with students and teachers working on the next play or rehearsing the next choir or band performance--except for my friend's classroom. At the end of the day, we all piled into her room, and while it took me awhile to get used to being around people all the time and never having a moment of silence, I realize now that is how we all became so close. We were literally shoved together, first physically, then emotionally.
Those moments after school became what I looked forward to. We had our routine. She sat at her desk, I sat at a table or a student desk next to her, and we both tutored our students. Because we shared many students, we tag-teamed if our kids ever gave us trouble. That only deepened our bond. After the kids and other teachers wandered away for the evening, we stayed, just for a bit. We talked about our day, venting about a stressful situation or relishing in a light bulb moment. At times we shared our worries, complained about the instability of our school, but we laughed too. And we always ended the day by walking out to our cars together and giving each other a hug.
As the year wore on, our friendship grew stronger. We had "grading dates," taking our work to Starbucks. If a student wrote a really amazing essay or created a fantastic project in Spanish, we shared with each other. We talked about our mutual students, and if a student earned praise or reprimanding, that student received double. It felt natural, like this was the way it always was and always would be.
My partner called her my work wife. The students even started to see us as a pair. Some of them started to refer to us as "the homies," asking us, "Are you eating lunch with your homie today?" or "Why is your homie on my case about my English grade?" A few of my "homie's" students who called her "Mom" started to call me "Auntie." As funny as this was, I felt that sisterhood with her. On the days where I could not find any reason to get out of bed and go to school, I remembered my friend. She gave me confidence and stability in a place that was barren of both.
The news of last week, the loss of my work wife, has me reeling. I'm devastated for our students who called her "Mom," for our students who she's inspired. Her unrelenting push for excellence brought out the best in our kids. I think we all taught to a higher level because of her. She reminded us never to wane in our position, no matter how much the kids complained. I'm devastated for her, because she lost her job. After five years of service and "teacher of the year," shouldn't our charter organization beg her to stay? And selfishly, I'm devastated for me. If anything, this situation has strengthened our friendship, but I don't want to know what it's like to not work aside my friend. She was the calm and the strength in the storm. She was the hope and the light in the darkness, and the powers that be have extinguished that from the students and the teachers who remain.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I Made It!
Last Friday was the last day of school! Can you believe it? I can't. When I think about everything I've survived this year, it astounds me. You know the saying there are no atheists in a foxhole? I guess there aren't any in an urban high school. Some greater force must have been at play, because it couldn't have been all me.
I survived the layoffs, the students (most days), the three grade levels, the 4X4 schedule, and the general chaos of the school year. My car didn't totally survive--I'm still fighting that one. Go figure. Some days I did not survive the lack of toilet paper, but thankfully those days my neighbor was willing to "spare a square."
You know how sometimes out of the rubble something greater is built? That's kind of how I feel, oddly enough. At the beginning of all of this, I felt like surely I would succumb to all of the external pressure, because my internal framework--my own image of myself as a teacher--was shattered. Somehow, making my way through all this muck helped me emerge and reclaim my teacher self. I don't know how or why, because there were so many days when I just wanted to walk away--even run away. But I didn't. I stayed. I fought. And I won.
I survived the layoffs, the students (most days), the three grade levels, the 4X4 schedule, and the general chaos of the school year. My car didn't totally survive--I'm still fighting that one. Go figure. Some days I did not survive the lack of toilet paper, but thankfully those days my neighbor was willing to "spare a square."
You know how sometimes out of the rubble something greater is built? That's kind of how I feel, oddly enough. At the beginning of all of this, I felt like surely I would succumb to all of the external pressure, because my internal framework--my own image of myself as a teacher--was shattered. Somehow, making my way through all this muck helped me emerge and reclaim my teacher self. I don't know how or why, because there were so many days when I just wanted to walk away--even run away. But I didn't. I stayed. I fought. And I won.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
What's the Universe Trying to Tell Me?
I've made no mystery about my feelings toward teaching and my experiences this school year. I've quit school so many times in my mind this year I've lost count, and I've questioned my ability to stay in this field. While I believe I'm a teacher at heart, the lack of funding, the chaos at my school/charter, and the lack of support have left me dried up.
Something I did not relay here months back is that our charter organization is so broke, due to mishandling of funds and our state's fiscal crisis, that we were facing a potential buyout or merger. While our organization backed out, I had already started my job search because "merger," "broke," and "buyout" spelled "possible layoffs." I considered jobs both in and outside the classroom. Anyone searching for a job right now knows how incredibly difficult it is to find something. It's spring, when many schools hire their teachers for next year, but that means only about 5-8 jobs are posted on a given week, and no district jobs, of course. Most weeks they're the same jobs I've applied for, minus the ones I'm not qualified to do. As for jobs outside education, I've looked primarily in the oh-so-profitable-non-profit-sector. While I suppose someone who was a lit major can do many things, I'm not sure what those things are. At any rate, I've applied to several jobs I think I'm qualified to do with equivalent pay rate, but no responses yet.
However, I did get a break with one of the teaching positions for which I applied. This school really piqued my interest because of their project based learning model. After a phone interview, I moved to the next round where I had to create a demo lesson. The week of the demo lesson, I visited the campus where a student took me on a tour, and while I'm cautiously skeptical these days, the students and staff seemed happy and energetic. On the day of the demo lesson, I put on my most professional attire and left the apartment in plenty of time to get to the school . . . that is had I not been rear-ended on the way there.
To make a long story short, I called the principal and explained what happened. He said to still come in, and they would work around my arrival time. I arrived about 30-45 minutes late, and after using the bathroom and giving myself a quick pep talking in the mirror, it was show time--I moved right into teaching my lesson. My adrenaline was still pumping, thankfully, and the first part of my 30 minute lesson was going well. The kids were working on a poetry activity and very engaged. The teacher and administrators in the room seemed pleased and interested.
The last ten minutes, however, felt like falling off a cliff. When it was time for a whole group discussion, my mind became a jumbled mess. Though I've taught this lesson before, I felt as if I was grasping at straws as I tried to direct the discussion. Confusion set in, then my mind literally went blank. There was nothing there. I looked at the kids, the administrators, and it took everything in me not to bolt out of that classroom. I opened my mouth and stammered an awkward "Umm" or "So," but the uncomfortable pause grew into a minute-long silence. I had to say something, so I said, "I'm sorry, I completely forgot was I was going to say." I was hoping the act of speaking would recalibrate my brain, but no such luck. I explained, "I'm sorry. I'm not myself this morning. I was in an accident on the way here--I'm not normally like this." I sloppily brought the activity to a close, and ended by explaining what I would have the kids do with this information. At least the last part was coherent.
Never in my life have I gone blank like that. I don't know if it was the adrenaline leaving my body, the trauma of the accident, or my nerves, but my ego took a hit to say the least. After the embarrassment of the classroom, I had several writing assessments and an interview with parents and board members. While I felt more positive about the way I presented myself in those elements, I cried almost the whole way home. Aside from getting a job offer, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I am a good--a great--teacher.
I suppose it goes without saying that yesterday I received an email from the principal telling me they offered the job to someone else. He did add on that out of 500 applicants, only 46 were invited to do a demo lesson. That made me feel better--that at least on paper I seem impressive enough to garner interest.
The funny thing, though, is that my intuition told me early this week to release the possibility of that job and to be open to whatever happens. This past week, our first week back at school, my 10th graders were happy to see me. Hillary and Gabby greeted me with hugs, and many of them said they missed me. While teaching three different subjects on a 4X4 model is killing me, I love those kids. My arm's length distance is shortening with them, and I'm allowing myself to hold them close.
Yesterday, Hillary and Gabby lingered at school with me. They were working on their current essay, but really we chatted. Gabby asked me about next year: "You're not coming back, are you?" That stung a little--that they sense it--and that someone else said it out loud.
I'm a horrible liar, so I was as honest as I could be: "I'll say it like this--I don't know if our school will be here next year."
"You're keeping your options open. Plan B. That's good," Gabby replied.
I wanted to change the subject. "You girls need to take AP next year. You get college credit if you score a 3 or higher on the AP exam. It's a wonderful opportunity you should take." Then the thought of not teaching them made me sad. A regret that has chewed at me for the last several years popped up--leaving my first kids behind.
On the way home, my thoughts seeped, my mind mulled all this over. What would happen if I stayed? What would happen if I kept my second period and taught AP next year?
Something I did not relay here months back is that our charter organization is so broke, due to mishandling of funds and our state's fiscal crisis, that we were facing a potential buyout or merger. While our organization backed out, I had already started my job search because "merger," "broke," and "buyout" spelled "possible layoffs." I considered jobs both in and outside the classroom. Anyone searching for a job right now knows how incredibly difficult it is to find something. It's spring, when many schools hire their teachers for next year, but that means only about 5-8 jobs are posted on a given week, and no district jobs, of course. Most weeks they're the same jobs I've applied for, minus the ones I'm not qualified to do. As for jobs outside education, I've looked primarily in the oh-so-profitable-non-profit-sector. While I suppose someone who was a lit major can do many things, I'm not sure what those things are. At any rate, I've applied to several jobs I think I'm qualified to do with equivalent pay rate, but no responses yet.
However, I did get a break with one of the teaching positions for which I applied. This school really piqued my interest because of their project based learning model. After a phone interview, I moved to the next round where I had to create a demo lesson. The week of the demo lesson, I visited the campus where a student took me on a tour, and while I'm cautiously skeptical these days, the students and staff seemed happy and energetic. On the day of the demo lesson, I put on my most professional attire and left the apartment in plenty of time to get to the school . . . that is had I not been rear-ended on the way there.
To make a long story short, I called the principal and explained what happened. He said to still come in, and they would work around my arrival time. I arrived about 30-45 minutes late, and after using the bathroom and giving myself a quick pep talking in the mirror, it was show time--I moved right into teaching my lesson. My adrenaline was still pumping, thankfully, and the first part of my 30 minute lesson was going well. The kids were working on a poetry activity and very engaged. The teacher and administrators in the room seemed pleased and interested.
The last ten minutes, however, felt like falling off a cliff. When it was time for a whole group discussion, my mind became a jumbled mess. Though I've taught this lesson before, I felt as if I was grasping at straws as I tried to direct the discussion. Confusion set in, then my mind literally went blank. There was nothing there. I looked at the kids, the administrators, and it took everything in me not to bolt out of that classroom. I opened my mouth and stammered an awkward "Umm" or "So," but the uncomfortable pause grew into a minute-long silence. I had to say something, so I said, "I'm sorry, I completely forgot was I was going to say." I was hoping the act of speaking would recalibrate my brain, but no such luck. I explained, "I'm sorry. I'm not myself this morning. I was in an accident on the way here--I'm not normally like this." I sloppily brought the activity to a close, and ended by explaining what I would have the kids do with this information. At least the last part was coherent.
Never in my life have I gone blank like that. I don't know if it was the adrenaline leaving my body, the trauma of the accident, or my nerves, but my ego took a hit to say the least. After the embarrassment of the classroom, I had several writing assessments and an interview with parents and board members. While I felt more positive about the way I presented myself in those elements, I cried almost the whole way home. Aside from getting a job offer, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I am a good--a great--teacher.
I suppose it goes without saying that yesterday I received an email from the principal telling me they offered the job to someone else. He did add on that out of 500 applicants, only 46 were invited to do a demo lesson. That made me feel better--that at least on paper I seem impressive enough to garner interest.
The funny thing, though, is that my intuition told me early this week to release the possibility of that job and to be open to whatever happens. This past week, our first week back at school, my 10th graders were happy to see me. Hillary and Gabby greeted me with hugs, and many of them said they missed me. While teaching three different subjects on a 4X4 model is killing me, I love those kids. My arm's length distance is shortening with them, and I'm allowing myself to hold them close.
Yesterday, Hillary and Gabby lingered at school with me. They were working on their current essay, but really we chatted. Gabby asked me about next year: "You're not coming back, are you?" That stung a little--that they sense it--and that someone else said it out loud.
I'm a horrible liar, so I was as honest as I could be: "I'll say it like this--I don't know if our school will be here next year."
"You're keeping your options open. Plan B. That's good," Gabby replied.
I wanted to change the subject. "You girls need to take AP next year. You get college credit if you score a 3 or higher on the AP exam. It's a wonderful opportunity you should take." Then the thought of not teaching them made me sad. A regret that has chewed at me for the last several years popped up--leaving my first kids behind.
On the way home, my thoughts seeped, my mind mulled all this over. What would happen if I stayed? What would happen if I kept my second period and taught AP next year?
Monday, January 10, 2011
The End of Innocence
While it seems like a lifetime ago, I remember what it was like to be a young, idealistic teacher.
Eight years ago, when I first entered the classroom as a TA, I was so passionate and determined. Determined and passionate, that is, to be right--that I really could make a difference. The more people disagreed with me, the more fuel I had to my fire. I marched into the principal's office one day--I was maybe 24 at the time--and demanded the new playground our school was building be handicapped accessible. One of my students could not access the current playground because she was in a wheelchair. I was respectful but blunt during my slide show (yes, pictures and all). While one of my bosses reprimanded me, I told her it was my job to speak up for my kids. Because I did, my student got exactly what she needed and was able to play on that playground. I loved my job, and I knew I made a difference. I felt it.
By the time I had my own classroom, I was even more determined and more convinced of my voice as a teacher. I was empowered. And I loved my kids. I mean, I really loved them. Perhaps to the point where it went a little overboard, because they were always on my mind. I talked to people about my kids constantly. It happened so naturally, because I saw them and I saw lessons in the people and places I experienced. We did the most amazing things--wrote letters to Congress, held presentations for the entire school, raised money for Darfur orphans, met Elie Wiesel and other Holocaust survivors, raised money for field trips, appeared in a documentary, held a mock presidential election . . . . And while it was so much work, and not always easy, we had so much fun. Then, quite the unexpected happened--my kids became my teachers and made a difference in my life.
And here I am now, years, lifetimes later, and sometimes I don't know how I got to where I am in my mind. Would you ever know I was that person I describe above? I miss that person; I don't know how to get her back. I'm angry, bitter, sad, hopeless, apathetic--all the qualities in teachers I at one time despised. They were those teachers, and now I am one of them.
I could go on and on in this blog about the pigeons in my ceiling, or their droppings running down my wall, or the lack of paper, books, toner, or whatever items we don't have at the moment. And while it's about those things, it's not about those things. What it's about, if I'm being honest with myself, is something far more personal. It's about my innocence dying. I no longer believe I can make a difference, because I can't. No one can in this situation. And to be angry about no toilet paper is easier than to say, "I can't make a difference."
Eight years ago, when I first entered the classroom as a TA, I was so passionate and determined. Determined and passionate, that is, to be right--that I really could make a difference. The more people disagreed with me, the more fuel I had to my fire. I marched into the principal's office one day--I was maybe 24 at the time--and demanded the new playground our school was building be handicapped accessible. One of my students could not access the current playground because she was in a wheelchair. I was respectful but blunt during my slide show (yes, pictures and all). While one of my bosses reprimanded me, I told her it was my job to speak up for my kids. Because I did, my student got exactly what she needed and was able to play on that playground. I loved my job, and I knew I made a difference. I felt it.
By the time I had my own classroom, I was even more determined and more convinced of my voice as a teacher. I was empowered. And I loved my kids. I mean, I really loved them. Perhaps to the point where it went a little overboard, because they were always on my mind. I talked to people about my kids constantly. It happened so naturally, because I saw them and I saw lessons in the people and places I experienced. We did the most amazing things--wrote letters to Congress, held presentations for the entire school, raised money for Darfur orphans, met Elie Wiesel and other Holocaust survivors, raised money for field trips, appeared in a documentary, held a mock presidential election . . . . And while it was so much work, and not always easy, we had so much fun. Then, quite the unexpected happened--my kids became my teachers and made a difference in my life.
And here I am now, years, lifetimes later, and sometimes I don't know how I got to where I am in my mind. Would you ever know I was that person I describe above? I miss that person; I don't know how to get her back. I'm angry, bitter, sad, hopeless, apathetic--all the qualities in teachers I at one time despised. They were those teachers, and now I am one of them.
I could go on and on in this blog about the pigeons in my ceiling, or their droppings running down my wall, or the lack of paper, books, toner, or whatever items we don't have at the moment. And while it's about those things, it's not about those things. What it's about, if I'm being honest with myself, is something far more personal. It's about my innocence dying. I no longer believe I can make a difference, because I can't. No one can in this situation. And to be angry about no toilet paper is easier than to say, "I can't make a difference."
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