There are so many things I don't understand about this year. I find myself on a sort of emotional roller coaster, but it's a very different one from last school year.
A few weeks ago, I had a happy hour reunion with work wife. Together we walked down memory lane, and we both described a similar feeling--a longing for what was. None of this makes sense. I suppose one can romanticize the past because it's in the past. There is a distance. It takes no effort to remember the good and fun, but that's not the case when it comes to remembering the pain and the struggle. And maybe that's what we were looking for when remembering--closure with no effort--but when my work wife and I echoed the same statement simultaneously--"It was so wrong that it was right"--I paused.
Last year I pondered why I work in the environment I do. I questioned if I chose it because it so echoes my own circumstances growing up: chaotic, disorganized, passive/aggressive, and manipulative. Of course I could not have known all that was to come, but the choices we make aren't so accidental. My work wife comes from a similar background, and we both admitted to seeking out what is familiar. The children who attend our school, while a different race, are not so unlike us. We know their families without meeting them, and we know our kids' secrets without them telling us. Our schools operate like our dysfunctional families, and while we loathe them, we need them, but we still find a way to work around them. At the end of the day, we want ourselves and our kids to thrive, so we do all we can to make that happen. I think it takes a certain type of person to function in this environment, and I suppose that's why we feel this tug. I don't know if it's sick, or if it's normal, but I'm trying to embrace the fact that this year I'm not the victim--this is where I've chosen to be.
A big part of what's made this year so bearable is my kids. My AP class has become my pride and joy. They have a huge essay due on Monday, so several of them stayed this past week after school to work on it. Being surrounded by them--their thoughts, their curiosity, their spirit--felt like this is where I need to be. Watching them give some of my American Lit students--who stayed after school to retake a grammar exam--a speech on how they need to pick up their grades and take advantage of tutoring gave me this surge like what a mother must feel when she watches her child do something for the first time.
Yesterday Gabby and Hillary stayed after to work on their essays. Actually, Hillary stays late everyday. It's routine now that she comes to my class at the end of the day. Sometimes we read together, sometimes we work on an essay, sometimes she works on other homework, or sometimes she helps me grade. Her presence reminds me of my purpose. When I say a word like "dichotomy" or "periphery," she wants to know what it means and how to use it. She'll have me look at her essay ten times over because she's such a perfectionist and wants to get it right. Hillary is so driven, so smart, so full of potential, and while I love those AP kids, Hillary has a special place in my heart. I want all my kids to get a 4 or 5 on the AP exam, but I especially want it for her. I think sometimes we, as teachers, encounter kids who remind us of ourselves, or remind us of who we wanted to be at that age. Sometimes we encounter kids with whom we click for whatever reason. Hillary is all of the above.
So yesterday, Gabby and Hillary stayed after school so they could get feedback on their essay, and my mind went right back to last year. Once again it was a Friday and everyone was gone but us, and once again we were working on essays. Last year, that was the moment I decided--though I didn't know it then--that I wanted to stay and that I wanted to teach them AP. I laughed to myself because the universe is so strange--that a simple thought could really manifest and become reality. I looked at my girls, and unlike last year, they really were working on their essays. They were so intense in their thoughts, trying to get the right word or phrase. They had matured in just a matter of months. Contrary to how I am these days, I stepped back and allowed myself to be in the moment. I said to them, quietly, "Remember last year, how you both asked me if I was coming back? Well, I didn't want to at the time, but you both made me change my mind. You two were the reason I wanted to teach AP. And you make me glad I changed my mind." Hillary was too focused on her essay to really hear. Gabby looked up, smiled, then said, "You should teach us next year too." Oh boy.
Showing posts with label when students become your kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label when students become your kids. Show all posts
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
A Series of Firsts
I've really missed this place and it feels good to be back. Unlike last last year, I've been busy, but busy good for once.
The last time I posted I was still raw, and in many ways I still am. Each day I feel the absence of my colleagues, my friends, and while I may get used to it, I won't get over it. The first day of school--and I'll tell you about that shortly--I talked to my students about my feelings. I got choked up and almost started crying, but they got it. They saw how we were with one another, with them, and they recognize the loss. During lunch, several students will hang out in my room. I joke that it's a displaced student camp because all the students are former (the name of my pre-merger school) students. But it's nice because we can reminisce about the "old days," bonding in unexpected ways and keeping the spirit of what we were alive.
So, our first week at school--any school for that matter--is PD (professional development). Some schools I've worked at have meaningful PD, others not so much. This year was the not so much category. All schools gathered that first Monday, and it was a lot of bla, bla, bla, then we were told all other PD for the week will be at our school sites. That PD was basically setting up our rooms. However, during that Monday, all of us from my pre-merger school were able to see one another--with the exception of two colleagues who are still looking for employment--and that was amazing. We all sat together and it felt, for a second, like we were still a team.
It's a tradition for my charter organization, during this Monday, to award the teacher of the year for each school. The woman who introduces this part of the ceremony--if you want to call it that--is our chief academic officer, and she is the only person from the central office who has recognized or verbalized what has happened to us. Her word for the layoffs, the merger, the nuttiness of last year is "sketchy." She explained that things were sketchy last year, but some teachers excelled and went above and beyond in spite of this, then she had the principal of each school come up and announce their teacher.
I thought for sure it would be my colleague who taught history last year. He was a first year teacher, and he was teaching AP, two other history classes, art, student council; he was finishing his masters; he broke up multiple fights and caught several kids doing drugs. This poor guy--I don't know how he's still teaching. Last year really took a toll on him, but he was never bitter like I was. I was expecting to hear his name when my principal said mine. I felt like those actresses who win the Academy Award and look around to see who won, when really, they won. I don't remember what my principal said, but I walked up to the stage and gave her a hug.
It was a bittersweet moment for me. That's a trite phrase, but that's the perfect phrase. I've never been recognized in that way by a school I've worked for, and it felt good for someone to say in such a public way, "You matter, and what you do matters." That was the sweet part. The bitter part was that last year my dear friend, my work wife, won this award for our school. I wanted to celebrate with her, with our staff, but that wasn't to be. In a way, I felt like we all deserved this award for what we went through. In another way, I wondered if I deserved it all. Reflecting back on last year, all the thoughts I've vented on here, and the many others which did not make it on here, would a teacher of the year think or say or believe those things? My former colleagues were really happy for me, telling me I deserved this award, then we parted ways.
We all went back to our school site (that is another blog entry), and this year I'm happy to report that I'm sans pigeons, though I will miss the joke that I have the smartest pigeons in the metropolitan area. And, for the first time in two years, I am able to have out all my fun school stuff. Last year I shared my room and it was always unlocked. Things would go missing all the time, so I never had out all my decorations, and the year before that my materials were in storage since I was unemployed. This year my room is me--it has my books, my posters, my desk decorations, my stool. My room is clean, and the door gets locked at night, so I return and it looks exactly the same.
Everything was set up perfect, just the way I wanted, so the only thing I was waiting for was my students. I think all teachers, no matter how long they've been teaching, get butterflies that first Monday. We wonder if they will like us, if we will like them, and that's normally what I am concerned about, but this year I was wondering if they were even coming back. Our new school site is quite far from where our previous site was--probably 15 or more miles. All our students take public transportation, unless their parents can drive them, and I thought for sure they would find a school closer to home. I was devastated at this thought, particularly with my AP class. I spent all summer preparing for them, and I was convinced that these kids, the ones who I said I would come back for, weren't coming back. If they weren't there, why stay? Why have AP if the children I built this program around weren't coming?
When I opened my door second period, that first Monday morning, I heard shrieks. I thought a fight was breaking out right outside my room. Instead, I was bombarded by hugs. "I missed you!' "I couldn't wait for this class to start!" "I'm so excited about this class!" They all came back. Literally, every single student who was supposed to be in that class is there. I couldn't believe it. And they were so happy to see me and to see each other. For the first time in a long time I felt like things might, for a second, be okay.
The last time I posted I was still raw, and in many ways I still am. Each day I feel the absence of my colleagues, my friends, and while I may get used to it, I won't get over it. The first day of school--and I'll tell you about that shortly--I talked to my students about my feelings. I got choked up and almost started crying, but they got it. They saw how we were with one another, with them, and they recognize the loss. During lunch, several students will hang out in my room. I joke that it's a displaced student camp because all the students are former (the name of my pre-merger school) students. But it's nice because we can reminisce about the "old days," bonding in unexpected ways and keeping the spirit of what we were alive.
So, our first week at school--any school for that matter--is PD (professional development). Some schools I've worked at have meaningful PD, others not so much. This year was the not so much category. All schools gathered that first Monday, and it was a lot of bla, bla, bla, then we were told all other PD for the week will be at our school sites. That PD was basically setting up our rooms. However, during that Monday, all of us from my pre-merger school were able to see one another--with the exception of two colleagues who are still looking for employment--and that was amazing. We all sat together and it felt, for a second, like we were still a team.
It's a tradition for my charter organization, during this Monday, to award the teacher of the year for each school. The woman who introduces this part of the ceremony--if you want to call it that--is our chief academic officer, and she is the only person from the central office who has recognized or verbalized what has happened to us. Her word for the layoffs, the merger, the nuttiness of last year is "sketchy." She explained that things were sketchy last year, but some teachers excelled and went above and beyond in spite of this, then she had the principal of each school come up and announce their teacher.
I thought for sure it would be my colleague who taught history last year. He was a first year teacher, and he was teaching AP, two other history classes, art, student council; he was finishing his masters; he broke up multiple fights and caught several kids doing drugs. This poor guy--I don't know how he's still teaching. Last year really took a toll on him, but he was never bitter like I was. I was expecting to hear his name when my principal said mine. I felt like those actresses who win the Academy Award and look around to see who won, when really, they won. I don't remember what my principal said, but I walked up to the stage and gave her a hug.
It was a bittersweet moment for me. That's a trite phrase, but that's the perfect phrase. I've never been recognized in that way by a school I've worked for, and it felt good for someone to say in such a public way, "You matter, and what you do matters." That was the sweet part. The bitter part was that last year my dear friend, my work wife, won this award for our school. I wanted to celebrate with her, with our staff, but that wasn't to be. In a way, I felt like we all deserved this award for what we went through. In another way, I wondered if I deserved it all. Reflecting back on last year, all the thoughts I've vented on here, and the many others which did not make it on here, would a teacher of the year think or say or believe those things? My former colleagues were really happy for me, telling me I deserved this award, then we parted ways.
We all went back to our school site (that is another blog entry), and this year I'm happy to report that I'm sans pigeons, though I will miss the joke that I have the smartest pigeons in the metropolitan area. And, for the first time in two years, I am able to have out all my fun school stuff. Last year I shared my room and it was always unlocked. Things would go missing all the time, so I never had out all my decorations, and the year before that my materials were in storage since I was unemployed. This year my room is me--it has my books, my posters, my desk decorations, my stool. My room is clean, and the door gets locked at night, so I return and it looks exactly the same.
Everything was set up perfect, just the way I wanted, so the only thing I was waiting for was my students. I think all teachers, no matter how long they've been teaching, get butterflies that first Monday. We wonder if they will like us, if we will like them, and that's normally what I am concerned about, but this year I was wondering if they were even coming back. Our new school site is quite far from where our previous site was--probably 15 or more miles. All our students take public transportation, unless their parents can drive them, and I thought for sure they would find a school closer to home. I was devastated at this thought, particularly with my AP class. I spent all summer preparing for them, and I was convinced that these kids, the ones who I said I would come back for, weren't coming back. If they weren't there, why stay? Why have AP if the children I built this program around weren't coming?
When I opened my door second period, that first Monday morning, I heard shrieks. I thought a fight was breaking out right outside my room. Instead, I was bombarded by hugs. "I missed you!' "I couldn't wait for this class to start!" "I'm so excited about this class!" They all came back. Literally, every single student who was supposed to be in that class is there. I couldn't believe it. And they were so happy to see me and to see each other. For the first time in a long time I felt like things might, for a second, be okay.
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?
Why I'm A Teacher
While I'm sorry I've been away, I'm kind of not. I think I needed a month hiatus from these venting sessions so I could turn inward. A lot has happened, and I want to start here:
Right before our spring break, about two weeks ago, my 10th graders had an essay due. One of my best students, whom I'll call Gabrielle, was having a very difficult time with her essay. Not only did she have writer's block--she was lethargic, unfocussed, and behind--all things she's normally not. I kept encouraging her to push through, but by mid-week, she had her head down the entire class. I decided to let her be. I knew something was going on, and I wanted to give her time and space before I approached her.
At the end of class, a few friends lingered, trying to get Gabby to go downstairs for lunch. I told them to go, that I would take care of her. Gabby's head remained down, but I could hear the muffled sniffles. "Gabby, what's wrong? Talk to me," I pleaded several times before she put her head up. When she said it was about the essay, I knew it wasn't. "What's really wrong?" I asked her. She turned her chair away from her table and put her head in her lab, sobbing. I kept asking her to talk to me, but she uttered no words. I got out of my chair and sat on the floor. I grabbed her hand. "Gabby, you can talk to me."
Finally, she relinquished: "My parents are getting a divorce. The court date is coming up where I have to decide who I want to live with." She described how, logically, she knows she can't fix her parents' problems, but emotionally, she believes if she's the perfect daughter and student she will bring her parents back together. She confided that only one other teacher and one other student at school know about the divorce and she prefers it that way.
I was touched by her honesty and vulnerability, particularly because she said it's hard for her to let her guard down. She wants to please people, so she puts on a happy face no matter what. While I tried to reassure and support her with my words, I ironically found it hard to let my own guard down. I felt restrained by my own emotions. So much this year has happened that has left me jaded and empty. I was connecting, but not completely, not the way Gabby deserved.
Gabby ate her lunch with me in my room. Before she left, we hugged, and I asked her if she felt better. She said, "Surprisingly, yes. Can I get help with my essay after school?"
I told her of course, and I must have felt better too. In the same way my questions urged Gabby to open up, our conversation pushed me to a place where I hadn't been in a long time. There's this line in the film Freedom Writers that resonates with me on so many levels. Erin, the teacher, is talking to her husband, and she explains, "When I'm helping them make sense of their lives, everything about my life makes sense to me." In that conversation I had with Gabby, I needed to listen to my own words of advice, and I needed to follow Gabby's lead. I needed to open up.
Later that afternoon, Gabby came for help with Hillary in tow. Hillary, another one of my 10th graders, is also an excellent student. The two of them sat down, and something happened. I graded, they worked; I reviewed their essays, they revised. I showed them how to use dashes appropriately. They were excited and stated to weave them into their writing. Gabby, sobbing earlier, confidently took on her essay, writer's block gone. Hillary, always competing with Gabby, read paragraphs out loud, impressed with her use of vocabulary. I felt vulnerable yet at ease with them. And I felt called, urged to get back on this path.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Heavy Words
Just this past week, a former student contacted me via email. She is one of my kids whom I talked about not too long ago. We've been in touch off and on since I left the high school where she was my student for two years, and she's told me tales of her college life. Her email seemed like an ordinary update until she wrote there was a lot to tell me and she didn't know where to begin. Things like Is she dropping out? or Is she getting married? or Is she pregnant? crossed my mind only because I've received those updates. While I support my students no matter what, my hope is that those things happen after college or trade school are complete and careers are underway. But as I read further, I only became more alarmed. I audibly gasped and had to reread her words to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I saw. My confirmation gave way to a feeling of shock then heaviness, and I sat there, staring at her email.
My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.
I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.
My former student wrote to tell me she is taking a leave of absence from school because she was diagnosed this past December with a rare form of cancer. She is getting chemotherapy and only on her 3rd of 14 rounds. She's lost her hair, eyelashes, most of her eyebrows, energy, and sometimes, her hope. Her words provided me a small window into her world as it is right now--a world where nothing feels permanent and nothing is taken for granted.
I feel jolted, in a way. While my complaints are legitimate, my quitting attitude is not. I have a choice--I have lots of choices--and all my 20 year-old student can choose is the way in which she fights this potentially fatal disease.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Ups and Downs of Teaching Part II
The events of the prior week weighed heavily on me, so I started this week in a weird, for lack of a better term, place.
Monday morning, the chair of all the ELA (English Language Arts) teachers for our charter organization delivered copies of The Bluest Eye. Not the actual books, but copies she made for me, so that put me at ease. One more thing I can cross off my worry list is always a plus. As she was leaving, she said she wanted to meet with me later in the week. We set up a date which I promptly forgot, because when I saw her in my room during my planning period the other day, I said, "Hey, that's right, we're meeting!"
We sat down and discussed the midterms the kids are taking on Friday. When I showed her the midterms I stayed up until 12:30 am writing the night before, I felt like I was standing naked before her. Perhaps that sounds like an odd comparison, but teaching is a profession where emotions and lives are on the line, and all of us, each and everyday, are vulnerable at a certain point. As she read though my questions, I heard, "These are too hard; you're asking questions you can answer, not them; this doesn't make sense; the wording is off; there are too many recall questions." I felt like maybe I don't know what I'm doing, and while I needed to hear this, I still wanted to flee the scene and hide.
"It's garbage, huh?" Self-deprecation is my coping mechanism when that nakedness, that vulnerability become too much.
"No," she responded, "it's not garbage, and I didn't drive across town to tell you that. We're going to work on this together and fix it. Writing exams is really hard and it takes practice." Suddenly she was the teacher and I the student, and I felt for my kids who were turning in essays this week and probably thinking the same thing.
By the time my ELA chair left, I had a better handle on writing exams, but my lesson plan was literally a wash. The review PowerPoint I made was no longer relevant, and my 9th graders were walking in the room. In a matter of five minutes, I created a lesson in my head--the kids would work in groups to write questions they think I should ask on the exam, and if their question gets picked, they get extra credit. As the kids worked together--and worked together well--I surprised myself. How did I do that? How did I think that up in just a few minutes? I talked to the groups about how test questions work. I told them the same thing my ELA chair told me--it's hard, but doing this will help you get better at tests.
Later that day, I found myself echoing the same message, except this time about writing. I had five kids that evening stay after to work on their essays--one until 5:45pm. For those of you who are not teachers, that's a rare thing when kids choose you over their personal time, and particularly when I've had the 9th graders for only 3 1/2 weeks. That moment took me aback, because I feel like I spend so much time yelling and talking at kids that I rarely get to connect to them and talk to them. And in that moment, there was connection and learning and intrinsic motivation and personal pride, and it was a feeling I've not felt with a group of students in a really, really long time.
And my 11th graders? Well, there's been a shift since my one student shared her history of sexual abuse. We're a tighter group--almost family-like. That feeling is also something I've not felt with students in a really, really long time. In teacher lingo, you have students or you have kids. And their yours or not. When a teacher refers to their students as "the students," that indicates distance, but when a teacher refers to them as "my kids," that indicates a personal investment--their yours. My 11th graders are my kids. And the crazy thing is that what has allowed me to let my guard down and be vulnerable and have kids and not students is a student. When my student put herself out there like that, I realized I had to be the adult and do the same thing. I have to let go of all of my fears about losing my job again, I have to stop being angry about the schedule change and the toner, and I have to remember that I do know what I'm doing and I am a teacher. Something I did allowed her to be vulnerable, something I did encouraged five kids to stay after school, something I did gave way to kids writing exam questions.
I could go make coffee again and not take work home and not be ultra stressed, or I could stay in education and make a difference in the lives of young people. Next week I may have a different answer, but this week I am a teacher.
Monday morning, the chair of all the ELA (English Language Arts) teachers for our charter organization delivered copies of The Bluest Eye. Not the actual books, but copies she made for me, so that put me at ease. One more thing I can cross off my worry list is always a plus. As she was leaving, she said she wanted to meet with me later in the week. We set up a date which I promptly forgot, because when I saw her in my room during my planning period the other day, I said, "Hey, that's right, we're meeting!"
We sat down and discussed the midterms the kids are taking on Friday. When I showed her the midterms I stayed up until 12:30 am writing the night before, I felt like I was standing naked before her. Perhaps that sounds like an odd comparison, but teaching is a profession where emotions and lives are on the line, and all of us, each and everyday, are vulnerable at a certain point. As she read though my questions, I heard, "These are too hard; you're asking questions you can answer, not them; this doesn't make sense; the wording is off; there are too many recall questions." I felt like maybe I don't know what I'm doing, and while I needed to hear this, I still wanted to flee the scene and hide.
"It's garbage, huh?" Self-deprecation is my coping mechanism when that nakedness, that vulnerability become too much.
"No," she responded, "it's not garbage, and I didn't drive across town to tell you that. We're going to work on this together and fix it. Writing exams is really hard and it takes practice." Suddenly she was the teacher and I the student, and I felt for my kids who were turning in essays this week and probably thinking the same thing.
By the time my ELA chair left, I had a better handle on writing exams, but my lesson plan was literally a wash. The review PowerPoint I made was no longer relevant, and my 9th graders were walking in the room. In a matter of five minutes, I created a lesson in my head--the kids would work in groups to write questions they think I should ask on the exam, and if their question gets picked, they get extra credit. As the kids worked together--and worked together well--I surprised myself. How did I do that? How did I think that up in just a few minutes? I talked to the groups about how test questions work. I told them the same thing my ELA chair told me--it's hard, but doing this will help you get better at tests.
Later that day, I found myself echoing the same message, except this time about writing. I had five kids that evening stay after to work on their essays--one until 5:45pm. For those of you who are not teachers, that's a rare thing when kids choose you over their personal time, and particularly when I've had the 9th graders for only 3 1/2 weeks. That moment took me aback, because I feel like I spend so much time yelling and talking at kids that I rarely get to connect to them and talk to them. And in that moment, there was connection and learning and intrinsic motivation and personal pride, and it was a feeling I've not felt with a group of students in a really, really long time.
And my 11th graders? Well, there's been a shift since my one student shared her history of sexual abuse. We're a tighter group--almost family-like. That feeling is also something I've not felt with students in a really, really long time. In teacher lingo, you have students or you have kids. And their yours or not. When a teacher refers to their students as "the students," that indicates distance, but when a teacher refers to them as "my kids," that indicates a personal investment--their yours. My 11th graders are my kids. And the crazy thing is that what has allowed me to let my guard down and be vulnerable and have kids and not students is a student. When my student put herself out there like that, I realized I had to be the adult and do the same thing. I have to let go of all of my fears about losing my job again, I have to stop being angry about the schedule change and the toner, and I have to remember that I do know what I'm doing and I am a teacher. Something I did allowed her to be vulnerable, something I did encouraged five kids to stay after school, something I did gave way to kids writing exam questions.
I could go make coffee again and not take work home and not be ultra stressed, or I could stay in education and make a difference in the lives of young people. Next week I may have a different answer, but this week I am a teacher.
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