Not a week after writing about what this new community means to me, fear, loss, and defeat rise to the surface.
It started with a text message at 6:30 in the morning this past Wednesday from a colleague--one of the new, first-year teachers who I will call Laura. She wrote to say our principal had asked her that morning to stay late that evening for a meeting. My friend worried that she was in trouble and asked me if she was right to be worried. Laura had had a rough go of it since the beginning of the year, specifically with classroom management. Our administration had been hovering, and at times the fine line between supporting and breathing down her neck had been crossed. I could see where Laura was coming from, but I encouraged her to keep an open mind, reminding her that our administration wanted her to be successful so the kids could be successful. These words, at the time, were what I knew to be true but would later haunt me.
Wednesday flew by, and it wasn't until Thursday before I thought about Laura's meeting. After school I wanted to check in, but I was inundated with kids, so I waited for a break before I went to her room--that is until I heard one of our mutual students say something about Friday being Laura's last day. I instantly stopped the conversation I was having and went up to her. I begged her not to joke about something like this, but she assured me she was being truthful, and when she said she heard this directly from Laura, I ran next door to Angela's room. Angela is also a first-year teacher, and the expression on her face when I told her what my student said must have mirrored my own. She asked me to watch her kids while she went to go talk to Laura. I could see the two of them speak briefly at the door, and when Angela walked into Laura's room and closed the door behind her, my stomach sank.
Fifteen minutes must have passed before Angela returned, but she didn't need to say a thing--I already knew. I asked Angela to watch my kids while I talked to Laura even though I had a million questions and no words.
Laura opened the door, and I said, "It's true?" At first she nodded calmly. I asked what happened, and she said something about budget issues, but we both knew that wasn't it. Administration had viewed her as a weak link since the beginning of the year because of classroom management. Everyone knew that, especially Laura, but the teachers knew how hard she was trying despite being undermined, at times, by administration. Support can be a vague word, especially when applied to this situation. Various people from the central office were sent to her room for observations, and at a certain point this became a distraction to Laura and her students. Too much advice from too many perspectives became overwhelming and she wanted people to allow her the time to find what worked for her. She had more bad days than good, but our school is not an easy place to teach at let alone be a first-year teacher at, and no one could say that Laura wasn't trying. She was in it for the long-haul, and finally she realized that was it--she was out--and she started to sob. Like I said, I had no words. I just hugged her then walked away so she could clean out her room.
The following day we had a morning meeting, and our little group wore their emotions on their faces. The awkwardness, the tension, the sadness were a physical presence. I don't think anyone was listening to our principal talk about accreditation when we knew this was Laura's last day. For an hour we sat, and I thought for sure our principal wasn't going to say a thing, which made me angry, but when she did speak up the last few minutes, I was even angrier. It was a footnote in the meeting, it was dismissive, and it was not heartfelt. That's not how my principal operates, and I was confounded. After all we had overcome since the layoffs and the merger, how could this be an Ooops! We don't have the money to pay Laura, so we have to let her go!? Something felt off, wrong, suspicious. Then my principal said she wanted to thank Laura for her time at our school and started to clap. Our group looked at each other, as if asking one another if this was really happening. Laura looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. I raised my hand before our meeting ended and said, "I just have to say that Laura, you were my first friend amongst the new teachers, and I'm devastated about this. We all have grown to love you and your absence will be felt." She started to cry, and we all went over to her to give her a hug.
The rest of the day felt like something from a parallel universe--reality but not. We all had knots in our stomachs that even our Friday happy hour could not subside. We compared stories and theories, we joked around, we got a little drunk, Laura got a lot of drunk, but at the end of the evening, everything felt so unresolved, so unsettled.
Losing a colleague in a situation like we are in is something that one does not just get over. When a group bonds in a crisis situation, which is what we are always in, the bonds grow fast and they grow strong. We are separate entities that operate as one because to face this as an individual is too much. To be down a person is like losing a limb. We are no longer complete. We no longer function the same way. We are, in fact, disabled, and for that there is no cure.
Showing posts with label when teachers get personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label when teachers get personal. Show all posts
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Community
Some of my earliest memories involve me trying to connect to someone or something. I'd walk up to anyone and start talking because, simply put, I loved being around people and sharing experiences. I knew no strangers and I held no shame. This characteristic terrified my grandmother because she was convinced I'd be kidnapped, but my mother countered with, "Well, if she was, that person would bring her back because she'd talk his ear off." It was true. And if there wasn't anyone to talk to, I'd improvise. As a toddler, I talked to my Holly Hobby doll as I fell asleep at night, and as a child, I talked into a red Panasonic tape recorder, recording questions I'd later play back and answer. These examples and others earned me the nickname "Motormouth," but this would not last. Time and life experiences would eventually wear away at my gregariousness, making me much more introverted, but they would never remove my desire to connect. In fact, this need to connect is a primal need. In many ways I think that's why I started this blog. Even if I didn't feel a sense of camaraderie at my school, I could could feel it with my readers through relaying my stories.
It's not surprising that all the jobs I've held outside of teaching have involved me helping and serving people, nor is it surprising that teaching is the profession I finally chose. What is surprising is that it's a lonely job. Yes, I'm around people all day. No, I mean ALL day. My cup runneth over with people, and sometimes I don't mean that in a good way. I love that my kids ask questions, but I never thought I'd get sick of hearing my name. I'm happy they want my help, but sometimes I feel like a pack of wolves are dismembering me. I want my kids to take ownership in the classroom, but I don't want sixteen-year-olds telling me what I should do. And the whining. Oh the whining. There's just no positive spin on that. So yes, I'm around people all day, but it can be and is depleting at times.
Last year I didn't really have a sense of community. It was just me and the kids, and if you read my blog last year, you know how that went. While there were many moments in AP when things went right, there were many, many, many moments when things went wrong with my American Lit class. In those times, I didn't really have a place to turn except to those good moments. Each day I felt myself becoming more and more introverted because I was so angry, so depressed, so bitter. Who would want to be around me? I think I could have had more of a community in some of the teachers, but I punished myself because I felt I didn't deserve it.
This year, I have a community. The new teachers don't know me, so I can be who I want to be. So I can have a second chance. Slowly at first, my guard dissipated. I answered their questions, tried to appease their fears. But their vulnerability became mine. I talked about who I was, and when the year started, I made a conscious decision to continue to talk about it rather than act on it.
The first-year teachers don't know any different, so of course they're full of hope about what this year can be. I have hope about the teachers they are becoming. Wanting to be a good role model, I am trying to be a better teacher for them. But their hope has become my hope. Now I just want to be a better teacher.
This community I've found is soul-enhancing. We have lunch with each other every day, even if that lunch is just ten minutes. Some days we grade together, brining our stacks of papers to one room. We have happy hour together. We come to one another for help or advice. We hug each other. We laugh together. We cry together. We carpool together. Each interaction repairs an old wound or prevents a new one from developing.
They are my adult tape recorder, sharing and allowing me to connect, and my adult Holly Hobby, listening and being present.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
A Second Act?
In-between my first post in August and now, a lot has happened. I guess you could say some of these events were fate, destiny, kismet. Maybe, maybe not, but the point is that these events have changed my outlook.
The first event is reuniting with a professional organization I've distanced myself from quite a bit over the past three years. I suppose I felt like I didn't deserve to be around these inspiring educators because I had strayed so far from their mission. I wasn't implementing the curriculum or walking the walk, so to speak. My anger had become this wall that protected me but inadvertently kept the good out too. I didn't want to be cheered up, I didn't want to be told everything was going to be okay--I just wanted to be left alone. Spending a weekend with many of these individuals, however, I felt my shell start to crack, and the love, the acceptance, and the call to action found a way in. In the same way ivy grips onto concrete and breaks through, something forced its way into me.
The second event is more like a fact, and this fact has shifted everything. Our teaching staff has changed considerably. Some teachers left the state, some left the school, others transferred to a different school in our charter, and that leaves the face of our campus entirely different. Many of the new teachers are just that--new teachers. Having so many first-year teachers brings a source of energy that is refreshing and contagious. I suppose I've forgotten what it's like to be fresh out of college and so sure that I can change the world. While I now see that as naive, I also see it as necessary. If everyone is jaded, nothing will ever change.
These teachers are amazing, sweet, and inspired. It feels so good to tell them they did a good job when they handled a difficult situation well, or responded to a student in a positive way, or that it's going to be okay and they just have to trust themselves.
Like Holden from The Catcher in the Rye, I find myself wanting to keep these new teachers innocent. I don't want them to see and feel some of the things I've seen and felt. I wished, as a first-year teacher, that I could have had a mentor or someone to look to for advice. I certainly don't see myself as the sage teacher on campus, but I've certainly experienced a lot for someone entering her seventh year in the classroom.
Three have already cried in front of me. There's sort of a miracle in that. I guess the miracle is how raw they are. For so long the feelings I've associated with teaching are anger or numbness. To see their emotion, to feel their energy is empowering and has pulled me out of the slumber I've been in for the past three years.
Almost two years ago, I blogged about the teacher I will never be again. I still believe that's true--I can never go back to that person--but now I can see my profession through someone else's eyes, and that's refreshing. What strikes me so is that I've been complaining about feeling so unsupported and alone, and now I find so much meaning in giving others support. In a strange way, I feel like the support I'm giving comes back to me in a sense--a feeling that we're thinking and feeling the same thing, that we're all in this together. We may cry for different reasons, but we cry because it hurts--and it does to be so vulnerable--but at least we're vulnerable together.
I feel reborn, like I'm entering my second act.
The first event is reuniting with a professional organization I've distanced myself from quite a bit over the past three years. I suppose I felt like I didn't deserve to be around these inspiring educators because I had strayed so far from their mission. I wasn't implementing the curriculum or walking the walk, so to speak. My anger had become this wall that protected me but inadvertently kept the good out too. I didn't want to be cheered up, I didn't want to be told everything was going to be okay--I just wanted to be left alone. Spending a weekend with many of these individuals, however, I felt my shell start to crack, and the love, the acceptance, and the call to action found a way in. In the same way ivy grips onto concrete and breaks through, something forced its way into me.
The second event is more like a fact, and this fact has shifted everything. Our teaching staff has changed considerably. Some teachers left the state, some left the school, others transferred to a different school in our charter, and that leaves the face of our campus entirely different. Many of the new teachers are just that--new teachers. Having so many first-year teachers brings a source of energy that is refreshing and contagious. I suppose I've forgotten what it's like to be fresh out of college and so sure that I can change the world. While I now see that as naive, I also see it as necessary. If everyone is jaded, nothing will ever change.
These teachers are amazing, sweet, and inspired. It feels so good to tell them they did a good job when they handled a difficult situation well, or responded to a student in a positive way, or that it's going to be okay and they just have to trust themselves.
Like Holden from The Catcher in the Rye, I find myself wanting to keep these new teachers innocent. I don't want them to see and feel some of the things I've seen and felt. I wished, as a first-year teacher, that I could have had a mentor or someone to look to for advice. I certainly don't see myself as the sage teacher on campus, but I've certainly experienced a lot for someone entering her seventh year in the classroom.
Three have already cried in front of me. There's sort of a miracle in that. I guess the miracle is how raw they are. For so long the feelings I've associated with teaching are anger or numbness. To see their emotion, to feel their energy is empowering and has pulled me out of the slumber I've been in for the past three years.
Almost two years ago, I blogged about the teacher I will never be again. I still believe that's true--I can never go back to that person--but now I can see my profession through someone else's eyes, and that's refreshing. What strikes me so is that I've been complaining about feeling so unsupported and alone, and now I find so much meaning in giving others support. In a strange way, I feel like the support I'm giving comes back to me in a sense--a feeling that we're thinking and feeling the same thing, that we're all in this together. We may cry for different reasons, but we cry because it hurts--and it does to be so vulnerable--but at least we're vulnerable together.
I feel reborn, like I'm entering my second act.
An Apology to My Students
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.
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.
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?
Monday, May 28, 2012
The Final Lessons
I'm still waiting to hear about that job, and the longer I wait, the more discouraged I become. I just want to know so I can move on or prepare to leave. Either way, for whatever reason, I feel in the deepest part of myself that in the next three weeks I am teaching my final lessons.
Last week was state testing, so as I proctored, I used that time to set my schedule for the three weeks that will follow. I wanted to do something really meaningful for both the students and for me, so I decided to recycle a unit I had used several years ago on The Crucible and modern witch hunts. I was both relieved and amazed. Relieved because I don't have to recreate the wheel, but amazed because I used to be such a good teacher. I put so much time and energy into what I did, and it showed. The work I demanded of my students was intellectually and emotionally rigorous, and now? Well, I feel ashamed. My class is a vacant representation of who I once was.
I wonder, are these final lessons meant for me or for my students?
If they're for my students, the lessons are what I've intended to teach all along. Lessons that urge them to be more open-minded, accepting people who are politically aware, who are critical consumers, who are prepared to pick up a pen or exert their own voice.
If they're for me, I don't know. Lessons in how a teacher dies a slow death in this system? Lessons in the consequences of budget cuts and high-stakes testing? Lessons in the futility of our current educational system? Or maybe the lessons are personal ones.
I took a hike yesterday in a place I've never hiked before. I had no idea where I was going--I was just following the path ahead. I kept wondering Where is this path going to lead? That's how I feel about my life right now: I have no idea where this path is going to lead. All I know is where I've been. Along the way, I've had some amazing experiences and I've met some amazing people, but somewhere on this path, I lost myself. I started to not trust what I know and what I feel. Somewhere on this path, someone else took control. Now I have to get that control--get myself--back.
It's terrifying not knowing, especially when I don't trust, especially when I don't have faith. If anything, these last two years have taken both from me. I don't like admitting that. It sounds so victimish, so weak, but it's true. And while I don't trust or have faith this job will happen for me, I trust and have faith in my instincts about this job. It feels right. It feels me. I can't remember the last time I've felt that about anything.
I don't know where this path is going, but I know where I want it to lead. So maybe these lessons aren't about my students after all. Maybe they are meant for me to prepare myself for where I want to go.
Last week was state testing, so as I proctored, I used that time to set my schedule for the three weeks that will follow. I wanted to do something really meaningful for both the students and for me, so I decided to recycle a unit I had used several years ago on The Crucible and modern witch hunts. I was both relieved and amazed. Relieved because I don't have to recreate the wheel, but amazed because I used to be such a good teacher. I put so much time and energy into what I did, and it showed. The work I demanded of my students was intellectually and emotionally rigorous, and now? Well, I feel ashamed. My class is a vacant representation of who I once was.
I wonder, are these final lessons meant for me or for my students?
If they're for my students, the lessons are what I've intended to teach all along. Lessons that urge them to be more open-minded, accepting people who are politically aware, who are critical consumers, who are prepared to pick up a pen or exert their own voice.
If they're for me, I don't know. Lessons in how a teacher dies a slow death in this system? Lessons in the consequences of budget cuts and high-stakes testing? Lessons in the futility of our current educational system? Or maybe the lessons are personal ones.
I took a hike yesterday in a place I've never hiked before. I had no idea where I was going--I was just following the path ahead. I kept wondering Where is this path going to lead? That's how I feel about my life right now: I have no idea where this path is going to lead. All I know is where I've been. Along the way, I've had some amazing experiences and I've met some amazing people, but somewhere on this path, I lost myself. I started to not trust what I know and what I feel. Somewhere on this path, someone else took control. Now I have to get that control--get myself--back.
It's terrifying not knowing, especially when I don't trust, especially when I don't have faith. If anything, these last two years have taken both from me. I don't like admitting that. It sounds so victimish, so weak, but it's true. And while I don't trust or have faith this job will happen for me, I trust and have faith in my instincts about this job. It feels right. It feels me. I can't remember the last time I've felt that about anything.
I don't know where this path is going, but I know where I want it to lead. So maybe these lessons aren't about my students after all. Maybe they are meant for me to prepare myself for where I want to go.
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, April 22, 2012
Ophelia
My partner and I do not have any human children yet, but we do have little ones whom we call our "furry children," or, in other words, our cats.
One of our cats, Ophelia, has had chronic illness for the past year, and early Friday morning she took a turn for the worse. After a half hour seizure--the one and only she had ever had--we took her to the vet and made the painful decision to put her down.
I can't and don't want to get into the details of her last hours because they are too painful, too raw to recall. And in a way, I cannot shake those images from my mind. They replay themselves over and over again, and I don't know if it's because my mind is trying to process what happened, or if I'm trying to torture myself.
Death is a strange thing to wrap one's mind around. It takes its course whether we yield to it or not. Looking on as she seized, comforting her, talking to her--that was all we could do. We kept asking, When will this stop? At the vet's office, we held her, talked to her, kissed her, but we knew that wasn't her anymore. There wasn't anything to do except to say Okay, we can let her go.
One of our cats, Ophelia, has had chronic illness for the past year, and early Friday morning she took a turn for the worse. After a half hour seizure--the one and only she had ever had--we took her to the vet and made the painful decision to put her down.
I can't and don't want to get into the details of her last hours because they are too painful, too raw to recall. And in a way, I cannot shake those images from my mind. They replay themselves over and over again, and I don't know if it's because my mind is trying to process what happened, or if I'm trying to torture myself.
Death is a strange thing to wrap one's mind around. It takes its course whether we yield to it or not. Looking on as she seized, comforting her, talking to her--that was all we could do. We kept asking, When will this stop? At the vet's office, we held her, talked to her, kissed her, but we knew that wasn't her anymore. There wasn't anything to do except to say Okay, we can let her go.
This feels like a tidal wave--knocking into me, at times drowning me, sucking me in, and rearranging everything as it once was. I see her toys, at times I think I hear her, I watch her little sister smell and search for her, my arms want to grab and hold her, but there's nothing.
I know healing is on the horizon, but at the moment it's devastating. I want to go back in time and stay there with her, petting her, listening to the rhythm of her purr.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Surveying the Damage
Spring break, in some ways, has been a magical time for me. I've been able to do the things I presume "normal" people do, like make dinner, grocery shop, open mail, pay bills, and sleep. On top of that, I've been able to get my face in the sun, and wow, what a difference it's made. I keep saying over and over again, I feel human again! Day by day I've felt my armor slip away, and this has left me more exposed. This exposure has allowed me to really feel my emotions . . . or recognize the lack thereof. Ironically, the more exposed I am, the more human I feel, the more I realize how un-human I've become.
In the midst of this "happiness," I realize I'm not happy--not totally happy, anyway. I can't be. I'm waiting for the next layoff, the next crisis, the next fill-in-the-blank. Not only am I not happy, I'm not anything. I've become this machine that just operates--functions--fulfills the daily quota. I teach my lessons, I grade my papers, I discipline, I go home, I get up, and I do it all over again. This is a childhood coping mechanism I learned around the age of ten or eleven, and this is what I did to survive. I put my head down and got the job done. The emotions around me were irrelevant. Sure, maybe I felt melancholy or outraged or terrified, but at the end of the day, feeling wasn't going to get me out of my situation. Work--movement--was going to propel me forward. While this coping mechanism gets me through my day, it works a little too well. When I go home, when it's safe to feel and to be exposed, I can't. So this is what I've become--an overworked, overused childhood coping mechanism . . . a shell of a human being.
As I approach my mid-30s, I see my life more for what it is rather than for what I hope it to be. I see what I've accomplished and what I haven't. I'm not ashamed to say, This is it? This is what I am? I thought I'd be more, do more. In my 20s I thought I was special. I guess we all think that as we emerge from our universities, diploma in hand. I thought I somehow possessed the answer, as if there was one answer to anything, and as if I somehow was the only one who held this answer. I don't have an answer to anything, and I don't care about finding one. I just want to be happy. I just want to feel peace. I want to detach from my career, not from myself.
In the midst of this "happiness," I realize I'm not happy--not totally happy, anyway. I can't be. I'm waiting for the next layoff, the next crisis, the next fill-in-the-blank. Not only am I not happy, I'm not anything. I've become this machine that just operates--functions--fulfills the daily quota. I teach my lessons, I grade my papers, I discipline, I go home, I get up, and I do it all over again. This is a childhood coping mechanism I learned around the age of ten or eleven, and this is what I did to survive. I put my head down and got the job done. The emotions around me were irrelevant. Sure, maybe I felt melancholy or outraged or terrified, but at the end of the day, feeling wasn't going to get me out of my situation. Work--movement--was going to propel me forward. While this coping mechanism gets me through my day, it works a little too well. When I go home, when it's safe to feel and to be exposed, I can't. So this is what I've become--an overworked, overused childhood coping mechanism . . . a shell of a human being.
As I approach my mid-30s, I see my life more for what it is rather than for what I hope it to be. I see what I've accomplished and what I haven't. I'm not ashamed to say, This is it? This is what I am? I thought I'd be more, do more. In my 20s I thought I was special. I guess we all think that as we emerge from our universities, diploma in hand. I thought I somehow possessed the answer, as if there was one answer to anything, and as if I somehow was the only one who held this answer. I don't have an answer to anything, and I don't care about finding one. I just want to be happy. I just want to feel peace. I want to detach from my career, not from myself.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Found
Last night I had a very profound experience and the strangest dream. I had to share both here. Neither has anything to do with the classroom, or maybe they do. You be the judge.
Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.
One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.
For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.
Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.
I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.
Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.
Perhaps I should back up. Remember when I said about two months ago that teachers tend to be a little screwed up? Okay, I guess that's a blanket statement, and maybe I should rephrase. Many of the teachers I've met over the years and have come to know the best have lives that mirror that of their students'. They've been abused, they've struggled with substance abuse, they were homeless, etc. These individuals become teachers, I think, because an adult helped them at the moment they needed it the most, and they want to pay it forward. At least that's the case with me.
One of the many ways in which my childhood mirrors my students' is that I spent some time in the foster care system. To make brief what could be a long story, my mother was unprepared and undecided when I was born, so I lived with a foster family until she thought she was ready. I didn't know about this family until I was eleven when I found a baby picture of myself with a different name on the back: Jodi. After I confronted my family about it, I heard the story, but of course I wanted more; I wanted to meet this family. When I was about 20 or 22 years old, I sought out this family, and I was surprised. I was obviously loved and cared for by this family, but nothing can really ever be what we create it to be in our minds. I say that because I really went looking for my foster mother, and while I found her, I really found my foster sister. We made an instant connection, and it was her to whom I felt so attached. Unfortunately we lost touch, and that had more to do with my being young and immature at the time.
For whatever reason, my foster sister had been on my mind a lot over the past few months, so before I flew to my hometown for winter break, I made it point to find her again. We met up last night after not seeing each other for ten or twelve years, and it was honestly one of the most profound moments of my life. The moment she walked in the restaurant, there was an instant connection I couldn't explain. I loved her and knew her without really knowing her. I learned so much about myself by learning about her. I wondered how could that be, and then she explained that she was really my caretaker, and of all the babies who were in and out of her family's home, I was her favorite. For whatever reason, we connected then and we connected now. We not only share the same birthday but a history of . . . love.
Re-meeting my foster sister felt like a coming home, in a sense. She is not my "mother" because I have a mother--and a foster mother. Instead, she is the person who gave me unconditional love when I needed it the most, and she is a sibling from whom I've been separated for a long, long time. Part of me has felt lost for all of my life, and I think through finding her I've found that part. I think for a lot of my life I've been looking for her without realizing so. I empathize with my students, because so many of them are searching, and now that I know what it's like to have that puzzle piece fit, I understand the significance of that void even more.
I had trouble sleeping last night because my mind was trying to digest all that I was thinking and feeling, but when I finally fell asleep, I had the most bizarre dream. I was in Utah, and a horrible snow storm had moved in. I was at a college, or maybe even a research center, and there were people around whom I knew. All of us were nervous about the snow storm because I was out there in the center of the storm--even though I was also at the college or research center. My friends or colleagues were studying maps and radars to track me down, and it appeared that some of them gave up on finding me because the falling snow was too dense and the weather too cold. I became upset and said they couldn't do that--they had to find me. More and more people were coming to the same conclusion, so I decided to go out in the snow and cold to find myself. I kept yelling my full name over and over again until I heard a noise. I looked up and saw my car--my real car--at the top of this steep hill. A man had apparently found me and drove me and my car over to the college or research center. I was elated and climbed the steep hill to get my frozen body, then I carried my near-death self down the hill to the facility. My body was so light and totally frozen. I kept telling myself I was going to be okay. When I walked inside, everyone was shocked but no one had a plan as to how to revive me because all had assumed I would die in the storm. The next thing I remember is I put myself in a tub of lukewarm water so I could thaw out. That's where the dream ended.
Part of me thinks this dream is about the need to save my spirit from my present circumstances. Part of me thinks this is about my search for my foster sister. Part of me thinks it's about both and how the two have to do with each other. Either way, I'm listening.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A Full Circle Moment
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.
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.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
A Lonely Year
Time is getting away from me this year--more so than even last year, I think. AP has me on my toes at all times and chained to a desk with a grading pen. On the other hand, my American Lit classes have me contemplating if I know anything about teaching at all. Each day I stare at the blank, quiet faces and the contrasting peanut gallery, who apparently have never head the phrase "Shut up." I'm teaching my tail off in AP and chasing my tail in American Lit.
On top of juggling two academic worlds, this year is a lonely year for me. Whereas last year I'd decompress with my colleagues in our make-shift faculty lounge, or laugh it off with my work wife, I'm very much in my own world. It's me and the kids, and that's it. My school this year has a very different culture than my school last year. We were so broke in so many ways. I don't have to repeat the whole saga--you know the story. I think the conditions in which we lived each day is perhaps what helped grow the culture our school developed. We had nothing but each other. At times literally shoved into places way too cramped--and that's how we formed this closeness with each other and our kids. While so many things were so wrong last year, our culture was one thing that was really right.
The merger butchered that. I see it on the faces of the kids from my former school. They feel it too. It's a longing for this unidentified void to be filled. Because it's a feeling I've not really felt before, I'm not sure what to make of it or how to help my kids make sense of it. I suppose that's why I hold some of them close . . . more hugs this year, more talks, more wanting to be around them rather than being forced.
There's more to say on all this, but I'll leave it here for now.
On top of juggling two academic worlds, this year is a lonely year for me. Whereas last year I'd decompress with my colleagues in our make-shift faculty lounge, or laugh it off with my work wife, I'm very much in my own world. It's me and the kids, and that's it. My school this year has a very different culture than my school last year. We were so broke in so many ways. I don't have to repeat the whole saga--you know the story. I think the conditions in which we lived each day is perhaps what helped grow the culture our school developed. We had nothing but each other. At times literally shoved into places way too cramped--and that's how we formed this closeness with each other and our kids. While so many things were so wrong last year, our culture was one thing that was really right.
The merger butchered that. I see it on the faces of the kids from my former school. They feel it too. It's a longing for this unidentified void to be filled. Because it's a feeling I've not really felt before, I'm not sure what to make of it or how to help my kids make sense of it. I suppose that's why I hold some of them close . . . more hugs this year, more talks, more wanting to be around them rather than being forced.
There's more to say on all this, but I'll leave it here for now.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
The Stranger in the Photo
Have you ever written an essay with your students? When I have the time, I try. This time I wanted to do this assignment, which was modeled after Donald Murray's "The Stranger in the Photo is Me," and I'm so glad I did. While the students taught me so much about them, I was able to learn so much about myself.
Here is my essay:
I have many childhood photos I can recall.
One where I am in red overalls with a Raggedy Ann, holding a pie fresh from the oven, on the front flap. My golden brown hair frames my chubby cheeks. I’m wearing blue canvass shoes that have a Snoopy and a Woodstock on the side, but one shoe is obscured because I have my leg tucked under me. I am not yet four, and in my big brown eyes, I have all the brightness and delight of a child that age.
In another, my long hair hangs over my tan shoulders as I lean down above my puppy dog cake, ready to blow out the seven candles. I’m with my mother and grandmother in an Amtrak train that’s Chicago-bound. My Snoopy doll, which I called Snoopy Snoopy Smup Smup, is sitting in the seat next to me. A sense of delight and wonder as I embark on my biggest journey yet and another year of life fill my eyes.
In these photos I’m a gregarious, fearless child. I’m gregarious because I know no stranger. I’m fearless because I don’t yet know the sharp edges of this world. In these photos I’m the same child who, at five years old, walks onto a stage in a dark theater and sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a row of balding, cigar-smoking men who are casting for Damn Yankees. The spotlight and the whispers of these now faceless men do not intimidate me. I sing with the confidence of a child who knows no shame.
But one picture in particular haunts me. In this photo I’m about four years old and I am neither happy nor sad. Kermit the Frog, who hangs around my neck, is smiling, but I am staring at the camera as if I’m in mid-sentence. I have on my pajamas with the little elephants and lions—pajamas I remember well. They are pink and footed, and they are the ones I was wearing when, as I unzipped them, discovered the horrors of chicken pox.
In this photo I am striking a pose, but not like that kind of pose. It’s someone else’s pose. I can tell because my little magnetic number and alphabet board is faced toward the man taking the picture, and not me.
In this photo I see a sense of sadness that I could not have known then, but as my older self—the self who has seen what’s on the other side—I see an eerie foreboding. At times I think that my child self is standing on a precipice and staring down into the rabbit hole of my adult life. At times I think that my child self—trapped in this forever mid-sentence—is saying, “Stay right here!”
But as a child I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted reassurance, but I wanted independence more, like the moment I first tried out my lifejacket. At five years old I was ready to swim in the big lake, but I had my mother hold on to my lifejacket so I was sure it worked, and then I was off. Just as I rushed into big girl swimming, I rushed to my adulthood, but as I did so, I was inadvertently rushing into moments that shattered the person I could have been. Along the way, I collided into the men who stole my innocence, my mother abandoning me, my grandmother locking me out of the house, my hospital stays. In each moment, that gregariousness, that fearlessness, that independence died.
Life can chisel away at a person’s soul, and in my rushing, I never knew that. I hadn’t watched my great-grandfather die, hadn’t watched my grandmother age, hadn’t watched my baby brother find a juvenile record, hadn’t felt the punch of unemployment.
Just as I was posed in this picture, I was posed throughout my childhood, mostly as the victim. As I grew up, I tried different poses myself, and never ones that benefitted me: the depressed one, the silent one, the angry one, the defensive one, the shamed one, the bitter one.
As I look back at those moments that killed what I could have been, those moments—and many other wonderful ones—are what gave rise to what I am today. My arms, which were the first to hold both my little brothers; my hands, which held my wife’s as we spoke our vows; my eyes, which have stored in them all the stunning mountains and canyons I’ve seen; my mind, which can give poetic language to what I think and feel; my feet, which allow me to stand before my students each and every day.
The little girl in the picture doesn’t know any of that. She just wants to cling on to her innocence, and she wants me to stay with her forever, but I can’t. I have to grow up and become what life intended me to be: a wife, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a teacher, a friend, and ultimately, a survivor.
Here is my essay:
I have many childhood photos I can recall.
One where I am in red overalls with a Raggedy Ann, holding a pie fresh from the oven, on the front flap. My golden brown hair frames my chubby cheeks. I’m wearing blue canvass shoes that have a Snoopy and a Woodstock on the side, but one shoe is obscured because I have my leg tucked under me. I am not yet four, and in my big brown eyes, I have all the brightness and delight of a child that age.
In another, my long hair hangs over my tan shoulders as I lean down above my puppy dog cake, ready to blow out the seven candles. I’m with my mother and grandmother in an Amtrak train that’s Chicago-bound. My Snoopy doll, which I called Snoopy Snoopy Smup Smup, is sitting in the seat next to me. A sense of delight and wonder as I embark on my biggest journey yet and another year of life fill my eyes.
In these photos I’m a gregarious, fearless child. I’m gregarious because I know no stranger. I’m fearless because I don’t yet know the sharp edges of this world. In these photos I’m the same child who, at five years old, walks onto a stage in a dark theater and sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to a row of balding, cigar-smoking men who are casting for Damn Yankees. The spotlight and the whispers of these now faceless men do not intimidate me. I sing with the confidence of a child who knows no shame.
But one picture in particular haunts me. In this photo I’m about four years old and I am neither happy nor sad. Kermit the Frog, who hangs around my neck, is smiling, but I am staring at the camera as if I’m in mid-sentence. I have on my pajamas with the little elephants and lions—pajamas I remember well. They are pink and footed, and they are the ones I was wearing when, as I unzipped them, discovered the horrors of chicken pox.
In this photo I am striking a pose, but not like that kind of pose. It’s someone else’s pose. I can tell because my little magnetic number and alphabet board is faced toward the man taking the picture, and not me.
In this photo I see a sense of sadness that I could not have known then, but as my older self—the self who has seen what’s on the other side—I see an eerie foreboding. At times I think that my child self is standing on a precipice and staring down into the rabbit hole of my adult life. At times I think that my child self—trapped in this forever mid-sentence—is saying, “Stay right here!”
But as a child I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted reassurance, but I wanted independence more, like the moment I first tried out my lifejacket. At five years old I was ready to swim in the big lake, but I had my mother hold on to my lifejacket so I was sure it worked, and then I was off. Just as I rushed into big girl swimming, I rushed to my adulthood, but as I did so, I was inadvertently rushing into moments that shattered the person I could have been. Along the way, I collided into the men who stole my innocence, my mother abandoning me, my grandmother locking me out of the house, my hospital stays. In each moment, that gregariousness, that fearlessness, that independence died.
Life can chisel away at a person’s soul, and in my rushing, I never knew that. I hadn’t watched my great-grandfather die, hadn’t watched my grandmother age, hadn’t watched my baby brother find a juvenile record, hadn’t felt the punch of unemployment.
Just as I was posed in this picture, I was posed throughout my childhood, mostly as the victim. As I grew up, I tried different poses myself, and never ones that benefitted me: the depressed one, the silent one, the angry one, the defensive one, the shamed one, the bitter one.
As I look back at those moments that killed what I could have been, those moments—and many other wonderful ones—are what gave rise to what I am today. My arms, which were the first to hold both my little brothers; my hands, which held my wife’s as we spoke our vows; my eyes, which have stored in them all the stunning mountains and canyons I’ve seen; my mind, which can give poetic language to what I think and feel; my feet, which allow me to stand before my students each and every day.
The little girl in the picture doesn’t know any of that. She just wants to cling on to her innocence, and she wants me to stay with her forever, but I can’t. I have to grow up and become what life intended me to be: a wife, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a teacher, a friend, and ultimately, a survivor.
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.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
A Poem
Before taking up my teacher ed program, I was working on my MFA in creative writing. I miss the days of playing with words, pondering my feelings, and pursuing my own intellectual queries. While it's been a long time since I've picked up the pen and battled with the blank page, all this uncertainty has rattled me to the core. The professional has merged with the personal, and I feel really lost. Writing, particularly poetry, is one way I cope. I almost never share what I write, but for some reason I want to share this one with you.
A Metaphor
How careless to have burned my thumb
on the oven rack. I jump;
startled from my numb,
watch the pink flesh wilt—
little heat arrows
burrow then simmer.
Sink water will not do
to halt the pluck
of the nerve,
to unfeel this feeling.
I am armed—it’s a coup:
brown bottle, fizz
ointment-smothered.
Pain is no match for instinct;
wrap it up, hide the mark.
Sensation suffocated,
held hostage,
stifled, walled-off.
Strange what one touch can spark.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Work Wife
There are so many heartbreaking aspects of this merger, but today I want talk about one in particular: my work wife. She was the Spanish teacher at my school, and an amazing one at that.
We became friends instantaneously--probably the moment I saw a Starbucks cup in her hand. She was a returning teacher this past year, so she had years of the crazy under her belt. Right away she gave me the scoop on all I needed to know. The first few weeks I followed her lead: if she was panicked, I was panicked, and if she wasn't, I tried not to be panicked.
As I mentioned in previous posts, we did not have a faculty lounge or an unoccupied place to go after school. All our classrooms were filled with students and teachers working on the next play or rehearsing the next choir or band performance--except for my friend's classroom. At the end of the day, we all piled into her room, and while it took me awhile to get used to being around people all the time and never having a moment of silence, I realize now that is how we all became so close. We were literally shoved together, first physically, then emotionally.
Those moments after school became what I looked forward to. We had our routine. She sat at her desk, I sat at a table or a student desk next to her, and we both tutored our students. Because we shared many students, we tag-teamed if our kids ever gave us trouble. That only deepened our bond. After the kids and other teachers wandered away for the evening, we stayed, just for a bit. We talked about our day, venting about a stressful situation or relishing in a light bulb moment. At times we shared our worries, complained about the instability of our school, but we laughed too. And we always ended the day by walking out to our cars together and giving each other a hug.
As the year wore on, our friendship grew stronger. We had "grading dates," taking our work to Starbucks. If a student wrote a really amazing essay or created a fantastic project in Spanish, we shared with each other. We talked about our mutual students, and if a student earned praise or reprimanding, that student received double. It felt natural, like this was the way it always was and always would be.
My partner called her my work wife. The students even started to see us as a pair. Some of them started to refer to us as "the homies," asking us, "Are you eating lunch with your homie today?" or "Why is your homie on my case about my English grade?" A few of my "homie's" students who called her "Mom" started to call me "Auntie." As funny as this was, I felt that sisterhood with her. On the days where I could not find any reason to get out of bed and go to school, I remembered my friend. She gave me confidence and stability in a place that was barren of both.
The news of last week, the loss of my work wife, has me reeling. I'm devastated for our students who called her "Mom," for our students who she's inspired. Her unrelenting push for excellence brought out the best in our kids. I think we all taught to a higher level because of her. She reminded us never to wane in our position, no matter how much the kids complained. I'm devastated for her, because she lost her job. After five years of service and "teacher of the year," shouldn't our charter organization beg her to stay? And selfishly, I'm devastated for me. If anything, this situation has strengthened our friendship, but I don't want to know what it's like to not work aside my friend. She was the calm and the strength in the storm. She was the hope and the light in the darkness, and the powers that be have extinguished that from the students and the teachers who remain.
We became friends instantaneously--probably the moment I saw a Starbucks cup in her hand. She was a returning teacher this past year, so she had years of the crazy under her belt. Right away she gave me the scoop on all I needed to know. The first few weeks I followed her lead: if she was panicked, I was panicked, and if she wasn't, I tried not to be panicked.
As I mentioned in previous posts, we did not have a faculty lounge or an unoccupied place to go after school. All our classrooms were filled with students and teachers working on the next play or rehearsing the next choir or band performance--except for my friend's classroom. At the end of the day, we all piled into her room, and while it took me awhile to get used to being around people all the time and never having a moment of silence, I realize now that is how we all became so close. We were literally shoved together, first physically, then emotionally.
Those moments after school became what I looked forward to. We had our routine. She sat at her desk, I sat at a table or a student desk next to her, and we both tutored our students. Because we shared many students, we tag-teamed if our kids ever gave us trouble. That only deepened our bond. After the kids and other teachers wandered away for the evening, we stayed, just for a bit. We talked about our day, venting about a stressful situation or relishing in a light bulb moment. At times we shared our worries, complained about the instability of our school, but we laughed too. And we always ended the day by walking out to our cars together and giving each other a hug.
As the year wore on, our friendship grew stronger. We had "grading dates," taking our work to Starbucks. If a student wrote a really amazing essay or created a fantastic project in Spanish, we shared with each other. We talked about our mutual students, and if a student earned praise or reprimanding, that student received double. It felt natural, like this was the way it always was and always would be.
My partner called her my work wife. The students even started to see us as a pair. Some of them started to refer to us as "the homies," asking us, "Are you eating lunch with your homie today?" or "Why is your homie on my case about my English grade?" A few of my "homie's" students who called her "Mom" started to call me "Auntie." As funny as this was, I felt that sisterhood with her. On the days where I could not find any reason to get out of bed and go to school, I remembered my friend. She gave me confidence and stability in a place that was barren of both.
The news of last week, the loss of my work wife, has me reeling. I'm devastated for our students who called her "Mom," for our students who she's inspired. Her unrelenting push for excellence brought out the best in our kids. I think we all taught to a higher level because of her. She reminded us never to wane in our position, no matter how much the kids complained. I'm devastated for her, because she lost her job. After five years of service and "teacher of the year," shouldn't our charter organization beg her to stay? And selfishly, I'm devastated for me. If anything, this situation has strengthened our friendship, but I don't want to know what it's like to not work aside my friend. She was the calm and the strength in the storm. She was the hope and the light in the darkness, and the powers that be have extinguished that from the students and the teachers who remain.
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