"Shelter from the Storm," Bob Dylan
Like all professions I'm sure, some weeks of teaching are easier than others. Some weeks I leave school relatively early, with only a few class sets of assignments looming on my desk or in my storage cabinets; next week's tests copied and the IEP kid's itemized grade print-out ready to go for Monday's meeting. Some Most Fridays, I leave school with piles of essays spilling out of my hands, 3 dirty coffee mugs bursting out of my book bag, and ink/food/Expo marker stains across my shirt. Lately, however, I feel like I've been leaving with a heavier heart. This is a common occurrence, I think, around this time of year. Kids feel more comfortable in class-- as do I, I'm sure-- and therefore feel more confident, inclined, and relieved to talk. To discuss their personal frustrations, familial ailments, lives. For the most part, it's great. I love learning about my students, knowing their interests, families, friends, sports. Some teachers I know create an invisible wall around themselves, never allowing students to understand or appreciate their personal lives. At the same time, these teachers silently ask students to keep their own personal, emotional, and social conquests and demons swept under the rug, away from the classroom and curriculum. While of course I understand the importance of maintaining classroom respect and ensuring students recognize authority, I also think allowing students to see into a window of your own life, as a teacher, makes you that much more accessible, genuine, and human.
I love almost every single part of my job. I know I've written so before, and perhaps that statement sounds a little trite and unnecessary. But it's true: I get to teach some of my favorite books in the world to teenagers, many of whom actually give a damn about the literature. As for the ones that don't-- sometimes they're the best challenge of all. I get to talk with my team-teacher, excitedly, about the color symbolism in Gatsby-- "Did you notice the Buchanons' house went from red and white to rosy to crimson! Fitzgerald's a genius!" I get to watch my sophomores tackle East of Eden, a 600-page monstrosity full of Biblical allusions and the ultimate struggle of fate vs. free will and good vs. evil, and enjoy it. Discuss it. Argue (effectively!) about it. READ AHEAD.
However, I never had any idea how much I would take home with me, emotionally, as a teacher. As rewarding as this profession is, over the last two weeks I have found myself worried about certain students, wondering about home lives, and questioning kids' decisions. Questioning parents' decisions. Questioning my own decisions. Should I have used a different tone with her? Did I refuse to listen and send him outside too fast? Was it really his fault? Should I have taken her phone away? Forced him to go to try-outs? Called her mom back sooner? Given him more credit? Given her less? Warned his parents? Watched my mouth?
And I get overwhelmed. And frustrated. And I wonder if the "difference" I'm making is counteracted by the mistakes I make. And then, it's easy to forget they analyzed every color reference throughout all of The Great Gatsby today, understanding why Jordan's eyes are grey while Eckleburg's are blue but his spectacles are yellow. It's easy to forget her telling me it's the first book she's ever really read, and enjoyed, and did Zusak write any others? It's easy to forget him coming to my class for the entire period, and taking grammar notes because he "misses it" and "needs to know the fourth sentence type," even though he was transferred to a home education program two weeks ago. Because it's easier to dwell on the errors and the faults and the oversights. It's easier to remember I let a bad word slip--two!-- today, and I should have let that parent know about his behavior weeks ago.
I let school consume me too easily. I know that. I'm trying to get better about over-analyzing and worrying, but it's hard when the "product" happens to be measured in human lives, and there isn't a scripted response for "My dad told me he can't love me like my brothers because I look too much like my mom" or "Do you and your husband have an extra room because my mom kicked me out?" So I'm doing my best to enjoy the hundreds of successes and smiles and achievements and stories that result from A Day in the Life of a High School Teacher. I'm taking deep breaths and crossing my fingers for all of my kids; the veritable array of shining, glazed, or detached faces that grace my classroom every week. And I'm remembering, with a full heart, the boys awaiting me at home:
Because I have to find the happy medium where I can care about my students and address their needs while at school, but fully embrace these two lovely, wonderful, happy souls who add immeasurably to the quality of my life. Because while my kids are absolutely one of my biggest priorities, my family has to come first:
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