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.
Showing posts with label what your education program will never tell you. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what your education program will never tell you. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
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?
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Personal-ness of Teaching
Something else your teacher education programs will never tell you is how personal your work can become. I've been doing a lot of thinking in the past two weeks about my purpose--in and outside the classroom. In my last post, I discussed my conscious decision to stay at my school despite all that went on last year, and while much of that decision had to do with my kids and my AP class, I think something greater than that is at work.
Our first quarter just ended, and on Monday all teachers had to report to school for a meeting with both our principals while the students had the day off. (My school has two principals--my principal from last year's pre-merger school and the principal who has directed my post-merger school for the past two years.) I thought this would be a time for us to strategize and collaborate, but instead our meeting served as a time and place for one of our principals to unload her frustration and disappointment. She's unhappy with the number of Fs the students have, and in her opinion, if we have so many Fs, the teachers did not teach. If these numbers do not change, we will find ourselves out of a job. I was fuming to put it mildly. How dare she threaten us with our jobs after all that happened last year? Each day we wonder about another layoff or another merger, and the person who is supposed to be one of our leaders is hanging our livelihood over our heads? After a tense minute of silence, she passed out a report to each teacher which detailed the number of students with each letter grade, then asked, "So no one has anything to say?!" I didn't take that as a rhetorical question, and muttered, "I'm keeping my mouth shut."
For a moment I wanted to cry. I thought we were all in this together. Apparently not. Then I looked at the report. There wasn't anything on there I didn't know. I look at my grade book each day. I know 60% of my students have Fs. My mind flashed to an interaction I had with a student about two weeks before. This student from one of my American Lit classes came to talk to me about something during lunch. I was sitting at my desk which is by my window where I have several pictures and my framed "Teacher of the Year" certificate. The student glanced at the certificate and asked, as if in disbelief, "Teacher of the year?" I nodded, and her face asked, 'How could you possibly deserve this award? You haven't taught us anything.' As I emerged from my reverie, our principal reiterated that if this many students are failing, she doesn't care what we were doing--we weren't teaching. Plain and simple. The tears pooled and were on the brink of running down my cheek. She and my student must be right.
My principal from last year arrived about ten minutes into this lecture, and I've never been so happy to see her in my life. While I've criticized her neutrality in the past, it's this very quality that deescalated the heat in our meeting. I don't know exactly what she said, but she was her usual diplomatic self and her words temporarily bandaged my open wounds. However, that didn't stop me from crying on the way home from work on Monday or making the rest of this week a wash. Tuesday I attempted to have a reflective conversation with the kids about quarter one, and while it worked in AP, it fell apart in my American Lit classes. I've often had these conversations with kids, so I know how to scaffold them--journal, then small group, then large group. It just didn't work. Thursday, most of my AP kids hadn't read, so I sat down at my desk and graded, not teaching at all. Over and over again I've asked myself out loud and in my mind--What am I doing? Hillary says I can't leave our school or her until she graduates, but honestly, What am I doing?
Oprah Winfrey, in her series Master Class, talks about authentic power. It's a power that comes from within--when one's personality serves one's soul--and because it comes from within, no external factor can shake it or tear it down. My power is all external, and I know that because I'm rendered powerless, particularly with my American Lit classes. They are, in many ways, my worst fear. They are failing and unresponsive and apathetic. They don't like me, and they don't like my class. While in one breath my AP students reinforce the idea of who I believe I am, my American Lit students shatter it. When I look at their vacant faces, I know I'm a bad teacher. This dynamic reminds me of my dysfunctional childhood because my mind always wavered between two messages--my own, which said I was a good person, or my stepfather's, who said I wasn't. Each day I tried to build myself up, but his towering voice and stature always won. But I'm not a scared eleven-year-old anymore. I can't change those kids, so I have to change myself; I'm just not sure how. Maybe that's why I'm still here--to stare down this shadow once and for all.
Our first quarter just ended, and on Monday all teachers had to report to school for a meeting with both our principals while the students had the day off. (My school has two principals--my principal from last year's pre-merger school and the principal who has directed my post-merger school for the past two years.) I thought this would be a time for us to strategize and collaborate, but instead our meeting served as a time and place for one of our principals to unload her frustration and disappointment. She's unhappy with the number of Fs the students have, and in her opinion, if we have so many Fs, the teachers did not teach. If these numbers do not change, we will find ourselves out of a job. I was fuming to put it mildly. How dare she threaten us with our jobs after all that happened last year? Each day we wonder about another layoff or another merger, and the person who is supposed to be one of our leaders is hanging our livelihood over our heads? After a tense minute of silence, she passed out a report to each teacher which detailed the number of students with each letter grade, then asked, "So no one has anything to say?!" I didn't take that as a rhetorical question, and muttered, "I'm keeping my mouth shut."
For a moment I wanted to cry. I thought we were all in this together. Apparently not. Then I looked at the report. There wasn't anything on there I didn't know. I look at my grade book each day. I know 60% of my students have Fs. My mind flashed to an interaction I had with a student about two weeks before. This student from one of my American Lit classes came to talk to me about something during lunch. I was sitting at my desk which is by my window where I have several pictures and my framed "Teacher of the Year" certificate. The student glanced at the certificate and asked, as if in disbelief, "Teacher of the year?" I nodded, and her face asked, 'How could you possibly deserve this award? You haven't taught us anything.' As I emerged from my reverie, our principal reiterated that if this many students are failing, she doesn't care what we were doing--we weren't teaching. Plain and simple. The tears pooled and were on the brink of running down my cheek. She and my student must be right.
My principal from last year arrived about ten minutes into this lecture, and I've never been so happy to see her in my life. While I've criticized her neutrality in the past, it's this very quality that deescalated the heat in our meeting. I don't know exactly what she said, but she was her usual diplomatic self and her words temporarily bandaged my open wounds. However, that didn't stop me from crying on the way home from work on Monday or making the rest of this week a wash. Tuesday I attempted to have a reflective conversation with the kids about quarter one, and while it worked in AP, it fell apart in my American Lit classes. I've often had these conversations with kids, so I know how to scaffold them--journal, then small group, then large group. It just didn't work. Thursday, most of my AP kids hadn't read, so I sat down at my desk and graded, not teaching at all. Over and over again I've asked myself out loud and in my mind--What am I doing? Hillary says I can't leave our school or her until she graduates, but honestly, What am I doing?
Oprah Winfrey, in her series Master Class, talks about authentic power. It's a power that comes from within--when one's personality serves one's soul--and because it comes from within, no external factor can shake it or tear it down. My power is all external, and I know that because I'm rendered powerless, particularly with my American Lit classes. They are, in many ways, my worst fear. They are failing and unresponsive and apathetic. They don't like me, and they don't like my class. While in one breath my AP students reinforce the idea of who I believe I am, my American Lit students shatter it. When I look at their vacant faces, I know I'm a bad teacher. This dynamic reminds me of my dysfunctional childhood because my mind always wavered between two messages--my own, which said I was a good person, or my stepfather's, who said I wasn't. Each day I tried to build myself up, but his towering voice and stature always won. But I'm not a scared eleven-year-old anymore. I can't change those kids, so I have to change myself; I'm just not sure how. Maybe that's why I'm still here--to stare down this shadow once and for all.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Well Crap
Nothing like being told on Tuesday you will have to start teaching a new class on Wednesday.
9th, 11th, and NOW 10th grade English. On a 4X4 schedule. Sure, no problem. I'll be sure to submit those brilliant lesson plans along with my proposal for the global warming crisis.
For any newbies out there reading this: if any administrators tell you they are giving you a class, group of students, or additional responsibilities because you are "up for the challenge," "capable," or "strong," that's your signal to run away very fast without looking back.
9th, 11th, and NOW 10th grade English. On a 4X4 schedule. Sure, no problem. I'll be sure to submit those brilliant lesson plans along with my proposal for the global warming crisis.
For any newbies out there reading this: if any administrators tell you they are giving you a class, group of students, or additional responsibilities because you are "up for the challenge," "capable," or "strong," that's your signal to run away very fast without looking back.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Things Your Education Program Will Never Tell You
1) You must have a bladder made of steal. You will drink copious amounts of coffee to keep the momentum throughout the day, but you will never be allowed to pee.
2) Get a second job. Schools these days will give you the bare minimum, like a pen and a pencil, and if you're lucky, a dry erase marker. If you want anything else, it's coming out of your paycheck.
3) Wear a bullet-proof vest (I'm speaking metaphorically here). Kids will hurl some nasty insults. Some I've heard as of late: "You're a hypocrite!" "I'm not choosing between your class and my future!" "I wish you would have been fired and not Mr. So And So." Ouch. It hurts, and there are days I just want to cry.
4) Long gone are the schools on TV that have gleaming hardwood floors and a plant in the window and the secretary who has been there for 20 years and knows everyone. If those places exist, I've not found them. Welcome to the understaffed urban school where pigeons live in the ceiling, termites are in the walls, and the roof leaks. Oh, and the cleaning crew is you!
5) Be prepared to form attachments, and don't buy into that "Never touch a student." Looking at the list so far, why would anyone endure this? The kids. I've loved them, and I love them still. Earlier this week, one of my kids said, "You look like you need a hug." I did, and that hug allowed me to make it through the rest of the day.
6) You need to be able to eat in 15 minutes. You know how corporate America gets "hour lunches?" Yeah, not in the world of education. If you don't inhale your food as a teacher, you just won't eat.
7) Say farewell to lazy weekends. Most teachers I know, myself included, work a 60-80 hour workweek.
8) You have to have a no-nonsense attitude, especially when teaching in an urban environment. Kids will come up with a million and one reasons why they can't or won't, and they will challenge your authority. You have to stand firm in your expectations and your positions. My new favorite comeback: "Your 14-year-old-self doesn't get to tell me what and how. Until the day comes when you've attended college for eight years and you've been in the classroom for seven years, you don't utter a peep about how and why I do things. You read me?"
9) Every teacher drinks. It's just a no-brainer.
10) Personal space? They want to know everything about you. Be prepared to know where the line is, then draw it with a really, really thick marker.
11) The lightbulb moments are amazing. When a kid get it--or even better--when a kid teaches you something, it's the best high. It's like climbing a mountain then reaching the summit. It's simply breathtaking.
12) It's better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. My master teacher taught me this. If you ask for permission, then all these other people get involved and it takes a month for an answer. Do it anyway, then in the meantime, practice the "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I needed to consult you about this matter."
13) You're not a real teacher until you think you're the worst teacher ever, and you're screwing up the lives of your kids.
14) You will quit your job in your mind (and maybe even for real) more times than you'd ever want to publically admit.
15) Everyone has an opinion on how to fix education, but the teachers' voices are the ones that need to be the loudest. Outside of parenting, this is the hardest job and the most important job there is. The education of the next generation rests upon our shoulders. Every doctor, politician, actor, police officer, lawyer, teacher, CEO, etc., was once a student and had a teacher. Without us, none of those jobs would be possible. Yet at the same time, teachers have very little input on the decisions that directly impact their jobs. That's why we can't do this alone, and that's why teachers need to educate their community about what is really going on in their classrooms so we can fix this.
2) Get a second job. Schools these days will give you the bare minimum, like a pen and a pencil, and if you're lucky, a dry erase marker. If you want anything else, it's coming out of your paycheck.
3) Wear a bullet-proof vest (I'm speaking metaphorically here). Kids will hurl some nasty insults. Some I've heard as of late: "You're a hypocrite!" "I'm not choosing between your class and my future!" "I wish you would have been fired and not Mr. So And So." Ouch. It hurts, and there are days I just want to cry.
4) Long gone are the schools on TV that have gleaming hardwood floors and a plant in the window and the secretary who has been there for 20 years and knows everyone. If those places exist, I've not found them. Welcome to the understaffed urban school where pigeons live in the ceiling, termites are in the walls, and the roof leaks. Oh, and the cleaning crew is you!
5) Be prepared to form attachments, and don't buy into that "Never touch a student." Looking at the list so far, why would anyone endure this? The kids. I've loved them, and I love them still. Earlier this week, one of my kids said, "You look like you need a hug." I did, and that hug allowed me to make it through the rest of the day.
6) You need to be able to eat in 15 minutes. You know how corporate America gets "hour lunches?" Yeah, not in the world of education. If you don't inhale your food as a teacher, you just won't eat.
7) Say farewell to lazy weekends. Most teachers I know, myself included, work a 60-80 hour workweek.
8) You have to have a no-nonsense attitude, especially when teaching in an urban environment. Kids will come up with a million and one reasons why they can't or won't, and they will challenge your authority. You have to stand firm in your expectations and your positions. My new favorite comeback: "Your 14-year-old-self doesn't get to tell me what and how. Until the day comes when you've attended college for eight years and you've been in the classroom for seven years, you don't utter a peep about how and why I do things. You read me?"
9) Every teacher drinks. It's just a no-brainer.
10) Personal space? They want to know everything about you. Be prepared to know where the line is, then draw it with a really, really thick marker.
11) The lightbulb moments are amazing. When a kid get it--or even better--when a kid teaches you something, it's the best high. It's like climbing a mountain then reaching the summit. It's simply breathtaking.
12) It's better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. My master teacher taught me this. If you ask for permission, then all these other people get involved and it takes a month for an answer. Do it anyway, then in the meantime, practice the "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I needed to consult you about this matter."
13) You're not a real teacher until you think you're the worst teacher ever, and you're screwing up the lives of your kids.
14) You will quit your job in your mind (and maybe even for real) more times than you'd ever want to publically admit.
15) Everyone has an opinion on how to fix education, but the teachers' voices are the ones that need to be the loudest. Outside of parenting, this is the hardest job and the most important job there is. The education of the next generation rests upon our shoulders. Every doctor, politician, actor, police officer, lawyer, teacher, CEO, etc., was once a student and had a teacher. Without us, none of those jobs would be possible. Yet at the same time, teachers have very little input on the decisions that directly impact their jobs. That's why we can't do this alone, and that's why teachers need to educate their community about what is really going on in their classrooms so we can fix this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)