Their Undeniable Truth

Other people’s birthdays are important to me. This is strange because I hate my own. Not that I wish I was never born, but I always have high expectations that are rarely met. I’ve had three exceptional birthdays. My 16^th birthday barley makes the cut, but that’s only because my mother forgot. I’m not mad at her though, she barley remembers my name. I guess that’s what having four kids will do to you. My 18^th birthday was absolutely amazing! My high school chorus class sang happy birthday to me, my principal called me into his office to tell me happy birthday, and my AP Lang. class threw me a Wizard of Oz themed birthday party, because I had never had a birthday party before. It was no doubt a… pity party. But for me, it was a party nonetheless. My last favorite birthday was my most recent one. My closest friends, all 6 of them, travelled through a Georgia snow storm for me. What started as a sleepover at my apartment turned into a semi-onesie, hotel, sleepover. They brought pizza, cookies, chips and dip, beverages, and a birthday cake! We lounged around, listened to music, watched movies, and talked. It was nothing big, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. These are the only birthdays where I’ve felt the most special. That’s why for me, I want to try to make everyone else’s birthday special. As a future educator, I’m always excited to find out when my students birthdays are and write it in my calendar. I’m still trying to figure out if that makes me a creep or not. However, it’s been harder to keep track this semester, but nevertheless, I remain persistent.   

*

I remember he dressed very nice that day. For a 16-year-old male, Matt has impeccable taste. I sometimes want to ask him to style me, but I find that far too weird and inappropriate. I almost said to him, “You look really dapper today. Is it your birthday?” For some strange reason, whenever someone looks really nice, I always associate that with it being their birthday. The one day when it actually would have been someone’s birthday, I don’t ask. Instead, I walked away after answering his question. The very next day, one of his friends looks at me and says, “Anne, it was Matt’s birthday yesterday!” I turned to Matt saying, “It was your birthday yesterday?!” He nodded shyly. My voice got a significantly squeakier as I said, “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” He shrugged. “You know what we have to do now, right?” His face immediately turned a flushed red as if he knew exactly what we had to do. “We have to sing you happy birthday,” I said ecstatically. I made my way to the front of the room saying, “I need your undivided attention please! Today is a very special day…” I paused for dramatic affect. “Today is Matt’s birthday! So, let’s all sing Matt happy birthday! One. Two. Three.” The entire class roared the happy birthday song to the point where my Collaborating Teacher had to shut the door. I’d like to think that this was a special moment for him. I’ve realized in the short amount of time I’ve gotten to know my students that I can’t give them much. But what I can do, and what I will always strive to do my final weeks left, is make my students feel…undeniably, undoubtedly, special.

Why don’t you like me?

As a new, young, and (I would like to think) cool potential teacher, I am used to students making me a bigger deal than I actually am. “You’re a college student?!”, “You’re so cool!”, “Can you teach me how to do makeup?” are a few phrases that I have heard a considerable amount of times since I entered the classroom during my first field experience. Needless to say, I loved it. I was relatable to the kids, and I think that’s what they enjoyed so much about me. Yes, I was their teacher, but I could also talk to them about the new Migos album, the occasional temptation to eat Tide Pods, and how sucky the new Snapchat update is. It is fair to say that I felt pretty secure in my student’s minds as “literally the coolest teacher ever.”

This semester started off no differently. I was still the same cool, relatable, and hilarious teacher candidate I had been for the past few semesters. Just like always, my students loved me. But, there was one student who just wasn’t buying the whole “cool teacher” thing. While the other students would flock to me to tell me about their weekend or show me their new phone, he stayed to himself, seemingly disgusted by it all. “How strange,” I thought to myself, “he doesn’t want to talk to me?” (I know I sound terribly conceited, just roll with it). I figured, “Maybe he’s just shy and a little introverted. I don’t want any of my kids feeling uncomfortable in my classroom.” From that day forward, I made it my mission to bring him out of his shell.

I started with a daily check-in. “Hey John, how are you? How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?” He would always reply with a bland, “Nope.” Any attempt at conversation was always immediately shut down by him. Eventually, I tried talking to him about what the other students talk to me about. Their favorite sports team, what happened at the school dance this past weekend, I even complimented him on his new Vans. Nothing seemed to spark his interest. Until he came to school with a tee shirt with the band The 1975 on it.

Little did he know, I was obsessed with The 1975 in high school. I had all the albums, I went to one of their concerts, and I even own some merchandise myself. When I saw his shirt I complimented him on it as casually as I could. My compliment was met with a doubtful, “Do you even know who they are?” His response conjured up multiple emotions. One was joy. That was the most that he has ever said to me. The second was surprise. Was he really doubting my status as a real deal fan of The 1975? Regardless of my emotions, I knew I had to keep this conversation going. “Oh, I see…I have to hit you with some cold, hard facts,” I replied. I listed off my favorite albums and songs of theirs; I was sure to not mention any of the popular songs so that he knows I’m a “real fan”. I told him about the first time I saw the band live, and I even told him about why I like them so much.

I saw the look of doubt become replaced with disbelief by the time I completed my rant. I could tell that he was extremely surprised at what I knew. After a brief pause John responded, “So, you really got to go to one of their concerts? I wanted to go so badly and I never got the chance! Do you think they’ll tour again?” I was so relieved. “Yes,” I thought, “I finally found something that we have in common.” We spoke for about 10-15 more minutes about the band, the possibility (and our hope) of a new album, and my experience at their concert. That conversation set the tone for the rest of the interactions between John and I. No, he still did not think I was cool, but he now thinks I’m “not as lame as I appeared originally.”

I learned a couple of important lessons from my experience with John. The first is, you always have something in common with someone. No matter how different you all might seem, there is something that you guys have in common. It could be that you all have the same favorite soda, or that you all are both the middle child, or that you both just started watching the television series The Office (even though you’re extremely late to the party and everyone is constantly reminding you of that).  I think that it is even more important to try to form those connections and relationships as a teacher with your students. As a teen in a middle or high school setting, having a bond with someone, even a teacher, is monumental in their confidence and comfortability levels.

I also realized and was a little taken aback by my need to have a student like me. Despite how happy I was to have finally gotten through to John, I realized that John thinking that I was a cool teacher is not important. John getting an education from me is what is important. As long as I provide a safe and comfortable environment for my students and perform my duties as a teacher, the other frivolous things do not matter.

 

Even if the Boy Cries Wolf, Take Him Seriously

It was about an hour into third period when I felt a sudden shift in my classroom.

I was bent over a stack of papers, reading and making comments on my second period student’s work as my current students collaborated in groups.

My heart stuttered when their chatter was abruptly smothered out.

I raised my head and found that many of my students’ gazes were jerking toward the ceiling, eyes trained on an all-too-familiar device fixed on one of the panels.

“Alright, guys,” I stated evenly. “You all know what to do.”

Before the words were fully out of my mouth, my students immediately rose from flocked to the corner of the room where my desk was, along the inner wall and out of sight of the classroom door. My CT grabbed the dedicated piece of butcher paper and blacked out our locked door, and then he stood and waited.

For the first minute or so, the room was silent; 34 pairs of eyes stared intently at the door or the intercom, awaiting some kind of action. Anything to dissipate the tense silence that had settled around us. As another minute went by without instruction, quiet sighs emanated from various points in the darkness, and slowly, like oversized fireflies, lights briefly lit up familiar faces and went out just as they’d turned on.

“Guys,” I whispered to no one in particular. “I know. It’s tempting to Snap or Tweet or something, but the internet and wi-fi need to be as cleared out as possible for fast communication.” I pointed at a lit up face which immediately turned dark blue like the others.

“Why do we have to keep doing these drills?” One of my quieter students asked me under her breath. “They’re never real.”

“Well, not so far,” I conceded. “But we never know when they will be. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. I know it’s annoying, but it’s-“

I was cut off by a shrill bell signal, and a voice came over our intercom speakers, reminding us of the protocol and expected behavior accompanying a Code Red Drill. Our students listened quietly, if not reluctantly, to the small speech they’d been delivered too many times already in just a few weeks. Then, the secretary’s familiar accent cut in, informing us that it was another false alarm.

With a chorus of sighs and grumbling, my kids filtered out of the corner and back to their desks; the class was alive with their discourse again, the drill already forgotten as if it was common practice. Actually, it was for us. All of that may have sounded a little dramatic, like some kind of movie scene, but this type of situation was routinely unexpected for us at this point. This was just one of multiple false lockdowns we had experienced, but it was not because our school was especially vulnerable to threats.

The school I student teach at has a…different means of dealing with potentially dangerous situations. I won’t (and can’t, really) get into the details, but suffice it to say that it’s a work in progress.

Generally speaking, it is incredibly easy to become fed up with any sort of regulation or protocol, especially if it seems like we will never really need it. Going through the same motions over and over, losing class time, only to find out someone literally hit the panic button is grating on the nerves and patience.

However, in the wake of the horrific events in Parkland, I am reminded that there is so much more that comes with this job than what I initially signed up for. Helping future generations grow into productive members of society by expanding their minds and encouraging them to learn and question? Sure. Paper work? Not exciting, but it’s a part of what the kids so disgustedly refer to as “adulting.” Reminding our students to stay quiet and not move for fear of their lives? Not explicitly in the job description. However, it’s a reality of the profession now, and it’s one that we need to accept and prepare for with maturity.

It’s so easy to want to joke and behave however we want during Code Red Drills. I’m just as guilty of it as anyone else, but sadly, we are learning more and more how deeply we need to consider our own safety and that of our students. As frustrating as practice drills are, be it for an active shooter or severe weather, I am now constantly reminding myself to bite the bullet and take everything seriously because one day we might need to.

I reminded my focus students of this today: none of us are untouchable, invincible, or special in this regard. A real threat situation could happen at our school, any day, any time, and it’s in our own hands to approach simulation situations with sincerity and react in the best way possible. These drills and protocols, as I told one of my disgruntled charges, are not to instill fear but alertness. In our school, it is now the informed responsibility of every living, breathing soul in that building to watch and listen. To be aware. Beyond our walls, dedicated individuals are working hard to create means of keeping our students safe, and impassioned, strong voices are speaking out for change.

Is all of this part of the best case scenario? Of course not. However, tragedies like Parkland have been possible realities since 1999, and now in 2018, we must take into account what we have learned in almost 19 years. What we do beyond that is up to us.

 

Wind and Feelings

I was always a fan of wind ~

When I walked home from school, I felt like the wind was the subtly of god’s voice existing in harmony with the beautiful parts of the world outside of the confinements of a school building. It would turn through the trees of my neighbor’s backyard and lead me away from the grinding migraine threatening my sanity, the dim yellowness in the hallway, and the smell of too many people in too small of a space. Wind was quiet enough to listen to after the day was done, but it spoke with a voice that cut deeper than the lectures in what often felt like a high school prison. I suppose the wind was my ideal for rebellion: moving where it wanted without measurable consciousness but also having the ultimate control because it was limitless. I tried to imagine the color, tried to watch it dance, but I couldn’t do that without just making it a part of myself. So I would move my arms softly, close my eyes to let it pull me.

Then I’d walk up the steps as I opened my eyes.

I find my mom on the couch. Laying down. Staring blankly at the 50’s sitcoms: Hazel, Lucy, game show after game show, and of course, Scooby-Doo. Her eyes are iced over and her mouth is drawn slightly downwards. She says ‘hi, baby. how was your day?’ and begs me to understand how she hasn’t been laying there all day.  There must be pain but it’s eating her without ever touching me and I can’t understand it so I just let it be–look and see a small, pale, fading figure encasing my mom like a rotting shell. That isn’t her. But where else could she be?

These thoughts used to press on my mind during sophomore year of high school, up through my sophomore year of college. Who am I kidding–it still bothers me daily. It’s the core of my selfishness to see my mom’s illnesses before seeing her.

Freshman year, she was just losing weight for seemingly no reason, but she liked that, and she could still move. But by the time I was 15, she was too small for anybody’s good. And hurt all over, and nobody could tell us why. By Junior year, I found some good sources of stupid to distract from any thoughts of mortality–boys and cars and running from my family solidified those thoughts of the end while also making me feel a slight possibility of limitlessness. But it hurt my inner foundation, and I felt myself crumble.

High school was one great shock after another: I left a private Baptist school for the world of public school in ninth grade and met my best friend (who, by the way, I was afraid to be friends with at first because I had a feeling he was most definitely gay and to be gay was to go to…well, you know, Southern Baptist stuff…), my mamma got sick with what I wouldn’t understand as a genetic defect until well into my college career (and for this reason, I have an issue with doctors and I struggle to not diagnose myself, albeit incorrectly, before showing up to the doctor’s office to convince them that I already know what is wrong, every time), and getting rocked out of my world of belief because of sexual abuse, amongst other things.

Let’s just say my teen years weren’t always pretty.

I got used to understanding the world through baptism by fire. Maybe I’m just conditioned to treat my bigger questions that way, but I dive head first into everything before ever even thinking to come up for air. Thankfully, with years, I’ve gotten a little wiser as far as choosing my outlets and deciding to breath before I get completely overtaken by the water, but I’ve also accepted the fact that I’m just an intense person. I feel things deeply, I do things extremely, and nothing is impossible. One day, I hope to become exactly like the wind. I’m still working on the subtly.

Mom has never been subtle. When the world is fire, she is water. More likely, the world will be water and she will be the fire trying to warm it even though nobody asked her to. She’s kind of awesome. And yes, still kicking. Sometimes she smells sick, which bothers me immensely, but through all of her strange medical ailments and emotional instability, she still manages to be literally one of the strongest human beings, if not the strongest, I have ever known. Her own might is literally the reason she’s still alive.

That drive is what I try to show my high schoolers everyday. I don’t know what they’re going through; I’d be a fool, a total jerk, to think I could for one second understand exactly where they are just because I’ve been where they are in a building. I’ve never been them. So I just show them what I gathered during my years:

***WARNING: Second person follows and could make any English teacher cringe***

1. You are your own greatest weakness and strength, so don’t allow anyone or anything to tell you otherwise. You decide what you want, when you want it, and how to get it, so choose wisely. And have your own back.
2. The voices of darkness are definitely as loud as the lightness quite often, but they can’t always be the ones you turn to in times of doubt. There’s a balance in feeling everything, so one just has to find (and perhaps draw) the line to connect optimism and pessimism to find realism (which, by the way, is going to turn out to be good, eventually).
3. YOU’VE GOT TO ACCEPT YOURSELF AS YOU ARE TO BECOME YOUR OWN FAVORITE PERSON. You also must accept others as they are to become your own foundation.

These are things I carry in myself, so they don’t have to be mentioned directly in my classroom. My students have to learn these things. But there’s beauty to be found in teaching the life skills students need through all the muck and mer of state standards, and it’s necessary. Vital. It’s possible to teach the lack of perfection in people by having students study grey characters. It’s likely students will thank you for allowing them to journal, read something they want, draw an inspiration for poetry. In the end, they need you to be who you truly are inside, no matter how goofy that sounds. It is essential to model for students how to be one’s own favorite when we stand at the front of that classroom, write lessons, create a room that isn’t prison but, rather, reflects the wind we feel within ourselves.

This is just a moment in time of my moments in high school, and I had one hell of a good GPA; can you even imagine half of the things your kids are going through? Help them remember this safe space so they can continue building one within themselves. Help them see the light in themselves through your subtle, guiding hand. Help them, please, know the importance of their own voices and the beauty their can bring just by being honest with where they are at this moment. We are creating the space in which they just might begin to create themselves, and that’s a big job. So, consider your own foundation when making your classroom space, and don’t forget to follow the wind ~

 

The Raven

I taught Poe’s “The Raven” this week to my students, and one of the things we discussed is how the Raven symbolizes the relentless sorrow the narrator feels for his lost love. The Raven’s persistence and refusal to leave his window represents the resiliences of his sadness.

Poe might’ve been talking about mourning the loss of a loved one, but we all have different Ravens in our thoughts. Reflecting later on this discussion with my students, I came to realize that I’ve had a Raven of my own thoughts lately.

The job description of a teacher is not what it used to be. While originally teaching might have been taken to primarily mean planning, instructing, grading, and being a good role model for students, lately, something’s been added to this list. I’m not just a role model and someone who teaches students about reading/writing/life. I am their protector. I’m not sure what it is about this particular one, but in the wake of the most recent school shooting, I’m constantly finding myself asking if this is what I really want to be doing. I didn’t sign up to be a bodyguard or to put my life at risk every day at work. I’ve had family members incite me to consider changing jobs, saying are you sure this what you want to be doing? Aren’t you scared? I’m nervous for you. These questions and conversations have resided in my mind and won’t go away. This is my Raven. The thoughts will leave me nevermore. I can’t get rid of this sinking, terrifying, dreadful feeling.

No matter how scared I may feel though, there’s something else that remains: my passion.

I answered a job application question this week that asked: what do you believe to be the essential qualities of an outstanding teacher? Passion was the first thing to come to mind in this response. You can have all of the technical qualifications for being a teacher, but all of it means nothing if you aren’t passionate about what you do. That’s what the students need if they’re going to learn in a meaningful way. That’s what teachers need if we’re going to teach in a meaningful way, and if we’re going to keep doing this job that only gets harder with time.

Is teaching worth the risk?

For me, yeah. This is not to say that I’m not scared or that I always feel safe because I definitely don’t. But it’s worth feeling like that, knowing that I have the daily opportunity to shape students into the kinds of people that will make the world a better place. I’m helping to build the future leaders of the world, and this responsibility is huge. So I’m ignoring my Raven and choosing to put myself at risk in order to do everything I can to teach students concepts of love, tolerance, and empathy. What better way to do that than through literature? Literature gives us access to the lives and stories of people across the world from a wide range of experiences, and it’s becoming a part of my evolving philosophy to use these readings primarily as a way to develop empathy and tolerance in my students. I think this is one of the best ways I can protect them as their teacher, by giving them more ways to think about loving others and making decisions that benefit humanity. I’m willing to take the risk because, honestly, I feel like I can’t afford not to. This is my responsibility.

I’m hopeful I won’t end up like the narrator in the poem, accepting the permanence of the pervading sorrow. I won’t stop trying my best to choose to be hopeful for the future, and do everything I can to make my classroom a safe space for my students.

 

The Student that Drives You Crazy

This week, I had to stay after school with a student that really drives me crazy in class. Brad is a student that knows he can’t miss more than 10 days in a row, or he’ll be withdrawn from school. So, Brad is the kid who misses 9 days, comes in for 2, and misses 9 more. In class, Brad doesn’t participate, doesn’t listen, doesn’t do work. And Brad distracts others. I keep thinking to myself, “this kid is a jerk on purpose.” My CT felt the same way.

We got an email from Brad’s mom, a nice woman with a passion for her son’s excellence.  She begged us to let Brad make up his missing assignments. “He’ll stay after on Monday,” she said. Monday came and went, and Brad did not stay after school. He forgot, according to his mother, who begged us again to let him stay. So, we agreed, but we were both very bitter about it. But, then something interesting happened.

Brad actually approached me in class and asked if I would stay, alongside my CT, because he felt like he really could learn from me. I was easy to listen and relate to. Brad was a sweet kid. He was extremely appreciative of my staying to help him. He admitted to me that he doesn’t get his assignments done on time because he can’t focus. He has to be moving; he has to be bouncing around. Otherwise, he just doesn’t get it. Brad also admitted, though I could tell he was embarrassed, that his computer was so, so old that he could barely use it. He didn’t have a printer or much of anything else. Brad told me that he had problems doing work at home because he was so tired all the time. I asked him why he was always so tired, and he said he always had trouble sleeping at night. So, he sleeps all day and during lunch, which is why he always wants to eat during my class.

Things were starting to come together. Finally, Brad told me he couldn’t work on the art poster project due tomorrow because he doesn’t own any coloring supplies. I walked him to our classroom, from the library, and grabbed coloring supplies. My CT asked him if he had finished the book for the test on Thursday. “Um, no ma’am.” “How far into the book are you?” “Um, well, I’m only on page 100. I just have a really hard time focusing on the book, and the audiobook is too hard to pay attention to.” “Can you have your mom help you?” asked my CT. “Well, ma’am, I rarely get to see my mom, unfortunately. She isn’t ever home.” Ping. Pain in my heart. We decided to let him take the test on Monday, and he asked me to read our book to him. He feels that it is easier to pay attention when I read. So, while the students are taking their tests tomorrow, I’ll be reading to him.

All this time, I have been getting so irritated with Brad, and I never stopped to think that his excuses aren’t just excuses. His explanations deserve to be heard. This realization has me feeling like I’ve failed him, like I could’ve helped him months ago. We always talk about how our students have lives we never know exist, and yet I didn’t even consider this. I think, from this point on, I’m going to start thinking about the invisible causes in these students’ lives. Rather than being irritated at their shortcomings, I need to help them find ways around them and help them grow. I’m so happy to have learned this lesson, and I’m so sad it took me this long.

Does he even work here?

There are two types of men in this world: the bearded, and guys with baby-face. When I was in 11th grade, I worked at a burrito joint and distinctly remember children referring to me as “Ma’am”. You should have seen the disgust on the lesbian’s faces after I told them I was –in fact— a teenage boy!
I love the way I look do not get confused; I just wished the faculty at my school did too. Every day I dress up for the reputation of our teaching profession, more so than the faculty who rolls up ten minutes before the bell in yoga pants and sandals. I abstain from gossip at school functions, follow instruction, and hold my head up high while I am at work.
“Young man… where are you going?” An assistant principle aggressively grabbed my shoulder as I walked out the building. I turned around and probably looked pissed off from being touched: “Do not put your hands on me! We are coworkers and you would remember that if you looked at me when I introduced myself.”

He frantically apologized, but similar comments seemed to come out of nowhere.
1. You are the less experienced driver,
2. The teacher who yelled at me for using the faculty bathroom.
3. “How do you feel being so close in age…”
4. Are you not nervous about the open house and the way they will look at you?
5. “You look 16 and that is all that matters to me, not the badge”
+++++

One comment put me over the edge on my walk up the stairs. A co-worker tapped me just to  scoff, “If you want to look like a teacher, just grow a beard.” This is an exemplar of situational irony because he is struggling with obesity.

I had thirty minutes before the bell rung, and students were walking in. One wallflower approached me (I looked on edge): “You are already a better teacher than he is. I heard what he said to you.”

My CT chimed in, “Mr. Harley has a lot to offer the school. Someone must be worried his job is up for grabs with how silent that room is.”
To veteran faculty who refuse to collaborate with millennials:
I am not taking your job because I know tech or pop culture.
They are giving me yours because you became bitter.

Ms. Right, The Magnificent!

Ms. Right! Ms. Right! Ms. Right! As the lights dim, I creep out of the shadows. Robust humming encloses the arena. Ba Bump! Ba Bump! Ba Bump! My heart pounds uncontrollably. Why is today any different? Why am I afraid? Perfectly popped kernels fill the air as people patiently wait for the thrill. Vibrant lights scan the faces of the crowd. Seats holding the weight of blithe disregard for the dangers about to occur.
It is my time. I must shine. I must engage the crowd. A pair of menacing eyes catch my gaze.

“Who are you?” I hear a faint voice whisper.

“I am The Magnificent!” I reply.

The eyes gain towards me. As the figure appears, my breath begins to shorten. Why am I afraid?

“Who are you?” The voice shouts!

“I am The Magnificent!” Shouting reluctantly.

“Why are you here?” The tone of disdain crept from the voice.

“To help change lives!” I say with pride.

“Then you are ready!” The voice creeps out of the shadows and reveals an older woman. My heart sinks with surprise. My grandmother glides with a beaming aura surrounding her. She smiles, kisses my forehead lightly and returns to the shadows. I AM READY! Beep! Beep! Beep! The blasting of my alarm rings my ears. The sun flashes across my face. Ms. Right, THE Magnificent gets ready to take the stage!

In my classroom, I find myself entertaining more than teaching. I plan the most magnificent lessons and my students still prove that my attempts are lackluster. Every day I walk the tight rope praying for ooos and awwws. My desire to help them reach their fullest potential is fool proof. Or so I thought. My students walk the tight rope of life every day, some of them with no guidance. Sitting in my classroom is a rest stop before the next climb. Constantly, I am afraid of failing them. I am afraid that I will not live up to their expectations as a psychologist, mother, social worker, coach, or teacher. As they juggle their many hats, I battle with which loose ball I am going to help them catch. The arena is unpredictable. Every day I strap on my top hat and begin to lead the small circuses of their lives. I am so much more than their teacher. I am the ringleader of my classroom, but without their acts my circus would be empty.

Lunch Bunch, Room 1213, Est. 2018

Bing! Bing! Bing! Aaah, one of my favorite sounds – it’s lunchtime. As the students file out, I gather my things for lunch and trail behind the flock of students making their way to the cafeteria. I get to spend the next 25 minutes with my Lunch Bunch crew, a rag-tag blend of ELA teachers who share second lunch.

Now, as an educator, we spend almost all-day, everyday surrounded by other humans, constantly moving, constantly talking, without a moment of peace. So, naturally, most  teachers enjoy spending the brief 20-minute lunch period in solidarity, taking the time for a mental break. Being the extroverted-introvert I am, I always thought I would be that kind of teacher. That was, until Mr. M invited me in for lunch one day on my way out the first week of school.

“Hey! Where you going new girl?”

“Home… I’m done for the day.”

“Why don’t you come eat lunch with us?”

“I didn’t bring a lunch today.”

“Oh well, come sit with us anyways! We don’t bite!”

I hesitated for a moment, only because I can be the most awkward person in the    world sometimes, but agreed to join them. And I am so glad I did.

I’m basic, and let’s be honest, poor. So my lunch [generally always] consists of a peanut butter and chipotle raspberry jelly sandwich with some sort of a random side. As we all settle in for lunch, I bite into my sandwich and think about how this sandwich actually represents the 4 of us. Let’s start with the jelly – It’s raspberry chipotle, my favorite. I like to think that Mrs. D and I are the jelly in the sandwich – we feed off of each other’s energy and demeanor. I am always laughing at something or making stupid jokes – she is always making sassy, witty, sarcastic comments that never cease to make me laugh. I’m the sweet one, she’s the spicy on; we balance each other. Mr. M – oooh, Mr. M. – he is the crunchy peanut butter. He is THE goofy goober – no pun intended. He is always pulling up a random YouTube video he swears is soothing or hilarious – and they generally turn out to be neither – but he insists we’re wrong and that they are hilarious. He makes the most cringe-worthy puns, but we all laugh anyways because what English major doesn’t love a good play-on-words? He’s the nut of the group for sure. And then there’s Ms. B. Poor Ms. B – she has to put up with us daily. She’s the only sane one in the group. She is the bread – she holds this crazy crew together. She is the calm and reason in the group.

Navigating student teaching, or your first years as an educator, can be a harrowing journey. I have learned so much from my students in this short stint with them, but I’ve also learned just as much from my co-workers. Mr. M didn’t have to invite me to eat with him that first week of school in August – but he did and I am so grateful. Small acts of kindness can go a long way. Since that small gesture, Mr. M, Mrs. D, and Ms. B have not only made me feel welcome at the school (even though a running lunch joke aimed at me is “she doesn’t even teach here”), but comfortable as well. I know I have my CT to turn to when I need advice, but with my Lunch Bunch, I know I have three amazing, experienced, kind-hearted, intelligent mentors I can go to for anything as well.

When the bell rings signaling lunch is over, we all groan in unison. “Ugh, I don’t want to go back,” Mrs. D cries. “Only one more hour, Ms. B,” Mr. M states – they happen to have 4^th block planning and are almost done for the day. I jump up and declare, as I do everyday after lunch, “Always a pleasure my friends – till next time.” It’s routine for our exit to go like this – I know even though they mumble about returning to class, they love their job more than anything – it shows through the advice they give me, the stories they tell, the relationships they have with their students, and more so in the way they teach. Finding your people is important. Finding your people at work is even more so important. So find your lunch bunch and break bread.

Comfortably Numb

This morning when I woke up (and got myself out of bed reluctantly) the song “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd was stuck in my head. I knew I had listened to Pink Floyd recently but couldn’t recall if it was that particular song. Maybe that’s why it was stuck in my head. It seemed to fit the mood and weather of the morning as I dragged myself through my morning routine. On the way to school I listened to it while driving in the pouring rain. At each red-light, I tried not to get too sleepy as I watched the rain droplets on my windshield be repetitively swept away by my wipers. It’s an interesting song because the beginning sounds dark, but then throughout it the melody repeats itself: “I have become comfortably numb.” I wouldn’t say that it’s a happy or sad song, but a song that accepts its fate.

I think I have become comfortably numb in my student teaching and now it is winding down and the walls are closing in. We have edTPA, we have applications, we have job fairs, etc. All I can do is keep reassuring myself that I’m going to get through it. The past two days have felt really long because I have been going in earlier so that I can be with first period. And it’s the week back after a week-long break! I would say it feels worth it once I get to see my students in first period. I only went to fourth period the week before the break, so when I returned to first period, my students said, “You’re back!”

There is one student in particular that I think was glad to have me back and that is Camden.* Although my CT and I can get tired of Camden talking to us all the time, he truly is a very nice student and I can tell Camden just wants someone to listen to him. He always tells me to have a good day at the end of class and his need to tell me every historical fact he knows is somewhat entertaining to me. I just nod and say, “That’s interesting…” Camden also likes to write little notes on his papers and bring them over to me to read. They’re usually facts about wars and stuff.

In addition to this student, I realize I don’t mind losing sleep to come to first period when I help my students with something they don’t understand. I think to myself, What if I wasn’t here to help them with that while my CT was doing something else? They need me.  

After first period, we have homeroom on Wednesdays. One of the students in my CT’s homeroom stayed during second period and was working on the computer. Second is our planning period. I was wondering what this student was doing when she told me that she was trying to write an essay and my CT was going to help her, but my CT had left the room to take care of other things.

“What kind of essay are you writing?” I asked.

“It’s for a college application,” she replied.

I said, “Well I can try to help you with that!”

So I helped her by proofreading her writing and giving her suggestions while my CT was busy. In the end, I felt like her final product turned out well and I was happy I could help her. My CT came back later and thanked me for helping the student while she was busy. Even though she wasn’t even one of my students, I jumped at the opportunity to help her. So I think now, What if I wasn’t there to help this girl? She needed me.

I hate to admit that I have become comfortably numb with my student teaching. Yes, the days are long and repetitive, but that is how school is supposed to be. I know that once I am teaching on my own and I get adjusted, I will be probably be relieved to be comfortably numb. Routines are a part of life. It’s just “another brick in the wall.”