Stressed Much?

With our recent holiday, I decided to give myself a much-needed break from all things teaching. While my break was fun and restful, I have to admit that my heart was heavy much of the time. It was hard for me to mentally leave school and all its problem.

Nothing illustrated that more than waking up Friday morning and not being able to move my left arm more than a foot beyond my waist. At first I thought I slept on it funny, then as the day progressed, I thought I had injured a muscle or even a tendon. I winced trying to do dishes or change clothes. Saturday and Sunday were no different in spite of ibuprofen, ice, and heat.

Sunday evening I was a lucky recipient of a massage--a gift beyond all gifts. While the massage therapist worked on my arm, I could feel her grab a hold of several knots encasing my left shoulder. I'm sure I'm exaggerating, but they felt like they were the size of small eggs. As she pressed on them, small electrical charges ran down my left arm and all the way up my neck to the base of head. No muscle injury or tendon tear. Just plain full out stress.

Sprawled out on that table, I felt like a sucker. My job is doing this to me, and I'm responsible for letting it do this to me. I don't have a lot of fight left in me, but I have enough fight to believe I deserve more. 

I called on a friend late last night, and we met up today. She was a mentor teacher to me at my last school, and returning to her and to a place that was a teaching home before my layoff was, for lack of a better phrase, like a homecoming. I felt like I could breathe, like I could let my guard down, like I could pull my shoulders from my ears and actually be honest. I looked her in the eye--this person who I admire and who helped me become what I am as a teacher--and said, "I don't know if I can do this anymore." I cried a little, talked a lot; she listened and gave advice, but more than anything she was present.

I'm reminded why she was, and continues to be, a mentor teacher. I walked away this evening remembering I'm a good teacher. I'm not right now because of circumstances, but I'm damn good at what I do, and it's not my fault that my school is in utter disaster mode every single day. All I can do is get out. I choose my profession over my job. I choose reclaiming myself.

"Professional" Development

Each week I find myself violently swinging between "I can't do this anymore" to "maybe I can hang in for just a bit longer." This week was no exception. Early in the week I was planning my departure from the teaching profession. The tip of the iceberg? Professional development. Excuse me--"professional" development.

Every other week the kids are released early so teachers can meet by school, department, or grade level and receive on-going training for a variety of purposes. It's a nice idea, but the purposes rarely meet the needs of the teachers. This week was the definitive example.

Since this was the first time we've met since our recent schedule change, I thought for certain we would discuss how to plan, pace, grade more effectively, because all of us are struggling with the new 4X4 model. Not only were we not able to discuss the issues we are all having, we were given yet one more thing added to our plate. Are you ready for this? Here it is--our charter's response to professional development while we are in crisis mode: an internet-based program guaranteed to raise our test scores . . . but none of our campuses have a class set of computers or reliable internet connectivity.

At the meeting, I wanted to fall out of my chair laughing. The poor women who were sent to present this program had the deer in headlights look. Neither of them were educated on our 25% budget cut, our reduction in staff, our schedule change, and our dire lack of resources, so when they asked us to remain positive, I replied, "Oh honey, we're past positivity." Of course, they could not show us how the program worked because they were on one of our high school campuses, that of course, has internet connectivity issues. Welcome to our world, I thought.

It was all very hilarious for a moment until I started to think of what this must be costing--someones salary, or more. And on top of that, this is the answer? This is how you're "helping" us and using my precious time? We all started to ask questions: Do you realize we only have our current students until the end of January? If we only have eight student computers on our campus, how is this supposed to work? Will we be getting better internet service? When are we supposed to find time to train ourselves on this program? Do you realize we don't even have enough books for our kids? They, of course, had no response, other than, "Your charter organization is dedicated to making this program work, so they must have a plan to obtain the resources." How could these women have a real response? They had no idea what they were walking into--a group of over-worked, exhausted, angry teachers who were expecting some real solutions, advice, or empathy. Instead, we got a slap in the face and a reminder that no one is here to help us, really.

Each day I try to decide if I want to beat my head against this brick wall anymore. The answer is, "I don't know." I started this blog as a way to cope and as a way to educate the public about what education really looks like. Too often America sees images of failing schools, burnt out teachers who don't care, or that extraordinary teacher who defies the odds, but they don't see what happens to the everyday teachers who care but are caught in the middle. But now, I'm starting to see this blog as a diary . . . a place to put my inner-most thoughts and feelings about my profession--a profession I once considered me. Teacher used to be an adjective to describe me, not a noun or title. As a teacher, I was going to change my kids and the world around them. Now, I don't recognize my profession. It has betrayed me, and our meeting this week was the last straw. It does not care what is happening to me, my colleagues, or my kids, but at least I have my answer now--the fire will consume. And no one will come.