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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)