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 the personal and the classroom intersecting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the personal and the classroom intersecting. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
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 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?
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
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?
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?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
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?
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?
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The Privilege (and Pain) of Being 30-Something
November proved to be a very busy month. I'm still waging my daily battles--teaching, grading, planning, disciplining--and on top of that, my juniors from last year are filling out college applications. For me, that meant letters of recommendation. Then, just like that, it was Thanksgiving break.
The older I get, the faster time goes. A summer, a month, even a work week flies by. Sometimes that's a good thing, but sometimes I wonder where it all goes. I'm a busy person, and I suppose I like it that way, but I've reached this place where I'm continually asking myself, What am I doing? More recently, I'm asking Why? and How do I change that?
I'm lucky to live in a city that has beautiful and diverse natural surroundings, so over break, I took several hikes. Being in a place that is such a contrast to my daily environment--particularly a place that is peaceful and allows me to tap into my spiritual side--helps me put my thoughts in perspective.
And this is what I've concluded: I'm not the person I want to be. I don't mean in the sense that I think I'm a horrible person, but in the sense that I'm taking stock of my life and evaluating who I am and who I want to be. I guess this is something that comes with age, because the gift of being 30-something is that I'm not 20-something anymore. 30-something offers a type of clarity and pulls away the delusion of 20-something. In the past few years, I've found humility, or humility has found me. I know I don't know. I want more meaning behind what I do. I want to be more present--not just for others, but for myself. I want my actions to line up with the person I want to be. I want to serve what makes my soul happy.
The burden of being 30-something is that I don't know yet how to make that happen. My friends who are in their 40s have found something I haven't or know something I don't. They are at peace with themselves in a way that translates in all they do. They are comfortable in their own skin. They are happy in a way that I've not known--like there's no need to chase after something or achieve another goal because what they have, what they are is enough.
In the past, I've used my career as a way to compensate for my inadequacies or my misgivings. I can't do that anymore. With the way the past year and a half has gone, I can just add my career to the stack of insecurities. Now I am left with what I am, and what I am is feeling. Feeling things that make me uncomfortable and confused but are begging me to listen.
The older I get, the faster time goes. A summer, a month, even a work week flies by. Sometimes that's a good thing, but sometimes I wonder where it all goes. I'm a busy person, and I suppose I like it that way, but I've reached this place where I'm continually asking myself, What am I doing? More recently, I'm asking Why? and How do I change that?
I'm lucky to live in a city that has beautiful and diverse natural surroundings, so over break, I took several hikes. Being in a place that is such a contrast to my daily environment--particularly a place that is peaceful and allows me to tap into my spiritual side--helps me put my thoughts in perspective.
And this is what I've concluded: I'm not the person I want to be. I don't mean in the sense that I think I'm a horrible person, but in the sense that I'm taking stock of my life and evaluating who I am and who I want to be. I guess this is something that comes with age, because the gift of being 30-something is that I'm not 20-something anymore. 30-something offers a type of clarity and pulls away the delusion of 20-something. In the past few years, I've found humility, or humility has found me. I know I don't know. I want more meaning behind what I do. I want to be more present--not just for others, but for myself. I want my actions to line up with the person I want to be. I want to serve what makes my soul happy.
The burden of being 30-something is that I don't know yet how to make that happen. My friends who are in their 40s have found something I haven't or know something I don't. They are at peace with themselves in a way that translates in all they do. They are comfortable in their own skin. They are happy in a way that I've not known--like there's no need to chase after something or achieve another goal because what they have, what they are is enough.
In the past, I've used my career as a way to compensate for my inadequacies or my misgivings. I can't do that anymore. With the way the past year and a half has gone, I can just add my career to the stack of insecurities. Now I am left with what I am, and what I am is feeling. Feeling things that make me uncomfortable and confused but are begging me to listen.
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