My Final Ode…

I promise that at one point in my life, I really was sane. Between messing information up for edTPA, forgetting about picking up my 13-year old from band practice, and crying more than I ever thought possible- I’m feeling like people think I can’t do this. I’m feeling like I’m failing.

Here is how I feel about teaching:

I hate the public education system.

My love of the content I will teach is not why I want to be an educator.

The idea of not working summers and getting to be with my kids over breaks and holidays is not why I want to teach.

I want a space where for 48 minutes students know they can think their own thoughts and not be ridiculed for it.

I want a space where for 48 minutes those students know the walls around them are stable. They will know what to expect. They will know that there are, in fact, expectations. They will know that for every choice there is a consequence whether it’s good or bad. Those students will KNOW that their teacher will not only know their name but I will try my damndest to say it correctly. They will know that they have a teacher who will show up to basketball games and celebrate their victories and challenge them to be better people than they were the day before.

I want a space where for 48 minutes they practice respect. They learn respect. They earn respect. They will learn each other’s names. They will look each other in the eye. They will know that you do not speak while I am speaking and I will do the same. They will know that you give a fellow classmate your undivided attention while they are speaking- standing in front of the room, sitting down- they will respect the courage it takes to use your words.

I want a space where for 48 minutes they learn that thinking always inside the box is not a good thing and that never being in the box does not give you the whole perspective. For 48 minutes they will learn that words are our power. And if they want power they need words so- open that damn book and read chapter one and don’t you dare not ask what words mean because how will you understand what is in front of you if you don’t ask about what you do not know? For 48 minutes I want a space where they KNOW why we are doing what we are doing because they need to know that thinking critically is important and living your life behind a screen is not living and the willingness to record what’s happening as a bystander and not as a participant is why we are desensitized and can’t even look up to the sky or converse without looking at our phone looking for the next update and upgrade when really all that slick screen is just your downfall…

I want a space where for 48 minutes students understand that apathy and lack of education breeds ignorance and perpetuates hate. For 48 minutes those students will understand that I will try to help them with what they are going through and if I don’t have an answer I will find someone who does. For 48 minutes they will know they are loved. They are supported. They are not alone.

This is why I want to teach.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

When Robert Stevenson first wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I can almost guarantee that he did not write this novel with the understanding that nearly one hundred and fourth years later a young teacher would be sitting and musing about her connection with his creation of these paralleling monsters. Yet, here I am. Nearly one hundred and forty years later, finding that I have much more in common with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde than I had ever thought possible.

Let me explain myself. I do not find my connection to these fictional characters in the way that part of me is good and the other is evil. However, I do find myself, on a weekly, basis straddling the line between my existence as Ms. Turk and Sam. One exists in the classroom with my students and the other exists at the park on Saturdays.

Ms. Turk is always level headed and seemingly poised while Sam tends to be scattered brained and often has her hair partially thrown up into a clip as well as dog hair scattered on all of her clothing. Yet, at times, Ms. Turk glances down and finds a few stray dog hairs, missed by the lint roller, caught in her sweater. Or a student cracks a joke that is widely inappropriate for school and Ms. Turk has to fight the bubbles of laughter in her throat from escaping her lips in order to chastise the student for being inappropriate, reminding the students that there is a “time and place”. Here, in these moments, my two personas cross and I constantly find my lives as Ms. Turk and Sam bleeding together like red and blue paint on a canvas. One crisp and calm and the other vibrant and somewhat always askew.

At the beginning of this teaching adventure, I fought hard to keep my teaching persona and my daily life separate. Probably due to a healthy dose of fear from the countless ethics modules. I did not believe that they could mix and if they did, I feared that I would lose respect from my students and that important lines would become blurred. However, I quickly found that I was wrong and that fighting to keep these two parts of myself separate was simply exhausting.

They were meant to be together, these sides of myself, and they influenced each other greatly. I would not be who I am without them both. As I allowed bits and pieces of my true personality into my teaching persona, the red and blue began to combine, creating a lovely shade of purple. That is where I exist now, in that lovely lavender world and I’ve never been more at ease with who I am as both Ms. Turk and Sam.

Whoever Tells the Story, Controls the Story

I looked out the open door of my classroom and saw pitchforks and torches of fire. Figuratively, of course, but these teachers were upset! I realized I started this anger, and although apprehensive to join the group, I smiled internally.

“This just isn’t fair!” I heard someone say.

“We’ve got to do something about this, I mean this is censorship! Do we want to be the kind of department that supports that?” another added.

My CT and I were currently in a war with administration to keep the novel The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas in our curriculum. We had already won several battles. After reading the first two chapters aloud to our students, we had some kids come to us saying they weren’t sure they could handle the content; discussions in class would be too uncomfortable, they didn’t know how to talk about their feelings, and they didn’t trust their classmates to be respectful of the subject matter.  They were afraid to discuss the book, but we talked through it in all our classes and things seemed to level off. We layed out the rules and gave the students the confidence they needed so they could talk about “real issues,” the issues they live with every single day. We spoke with the Vice Principal of Academics during this time too, to ensure she knew what was going on in our classes. She was onboard and she loved that we were reading such an important text. I decided to read The Hate U Give with To Kill a Mockingbird because both books have a theme of injustice, community, and identity. Although from two different perspectives, they speak to one another in so many ways.

When it came time to order the class set of books we were elated! Finally, the students would have their own books and we didn’t have to read aloud all day. They were excited too. They asked daily when the books would arrive. We started telling them, “There’s something up with the shipping. We’re still trying to fix it.” Everytime I lied a brick hit my stomach that I was forced to digest for the remainder of the day. In truth, I had no idea when the books were coming in or if we would be allowed to finish reading it. The excuse being passed around was the issue with profanity. The cursing was apparently too much for these delicate 16-year old ears (who by the way probably cuss someone out on the daily). But this issue was bigger than language and we all knew it. The curse words make up 4% of the novel (my CT created a “Cuss Word spreadsheet”). If this situation wasn’t so heartbreaking I would have laughed.

This was supposedly about placating parents who would be upset because they “don’t use this kind of language at home.” However, in some ways I feel it’s also about silencing minority voices. How can I make such a bold statement you may ask? Because To Kill a Mockingbird has been read in classrooms for decades and the word “n*****” is used countless times to describe African-Americans, but no one in administration has batted an eye. Of Mice and Men, The Glass Castle, Romeo and Juliet, and Tuesdays With Morrie, all books that are taught at my school have just as much profanity, more violent content, countless sexual innuendos and more. (I mean have you read a Shakespeare play? That man had some issues…but his work is considered art long before anyone talks about how inappropriate it is). When we told our students the news they brought up these same arguments to us.

“Ms. Douyon, that doesn’t make sense. The n-word is used in the Mockingbird book. Are they saying it’s okay to read a book with that kind of language?” one of my students said aloud.

“Yeah, they talk about the KKK in here too. I mean why is it okay to talk about that, but not about police brutality?”

“Honestly guys, I don’t know. But these are great arguments you can write in your letters to administration. Let them know that their reasonings are thin and you can see straight through them,” I replied.  

The demographic of my school community is changing, but some members of administration are not willing to also change the curriculum to make more students feel included. My students smile when we read The Hate U Give. They say, “Starr and Khalil sound just like me and my friends!” and “Garden Heights is just like the neighborhood I grew up in.” They see themselves in the text. They are represented, and we see how much it matters. I wish our administration felt the same.

I stayed quiet in the group of angry teachers, but their disgust about censorship in our department, and how much they will not stand for it was evident. We’re not making protest posters just yet, but this ride will definitely be a bumpy one. It has made me think of all the battles I will need to fight as a teacher. Battles to keep books and articles in my classroom that reach out and grab students, shake their perspectives, and let them know they matter too. I will always stand up for my kids and the rights they have to freedom of speech and freedom of information. Because we all know, whoever tells the story, controls the story. We are writers and dreamers in my classroom, and it’s our time to take back the narrative.

The Story of a Girl Who is Really Bad at Tests

The dreaded GACE.

It wasn’t until the moment I thought I failed that I also thought my life was over.

Did I really spend this whole year working my butt off, learning how to be a teacher, and devoting my days and nights to kids to fail a test that doesn’t even measure my ability to teach? I was horrified. Spent my whole weekend drowning in the fact that I have to take this test again, and, to make it even better, spend 123 dollars of money I don’t even have.

I am the worst test taker. That is why I don’t give my students tests, because I know the feeling of test-anxiety and forgetting everything you have ever known once a piece of paper is put in front of you. Unless it is school-mandatory, I will never give a multiple choice exam.

This does not measure what students know. It only measures how well they are able to memorize facts and regurgitate them only to forget those same facts once they turn the test in. That isn’t my purpose as a teacher. My purpose is to make them better thinkers. To teach them how to react to situations in life that might throw them off – through literature. I want them to show me what they know through their creativity or through their explanations. I want them to teach me what they know and what they have learned. Tests, in my opinion, don’t adequately do anything for the student.

All of these emotions were swarming through my mind as I reflected and realized how students feel not for one test, but for the four they might have in one school day.

This is simply too much pressure.

Pressure to perform and excel through proof of a number. Pressure from their parents, their peers around them, and their teachers. It is the worst feeling to fail a test and then get backlash from all of those people. You feel disapproved, unintelligent, and not enough.

Until you realize that you actually didn’t fail the test.

First of all, to have that unclear of scores is insane to me. Why wouldn’t I assume that I have to pass at the professional? I am going to be a professional teacher, after all. The emotions I felt after realizing I actually passed were surprising. If this is what it feels like to pass a test this big, I feel just as annoyed about passing that I do about failing. I didn’t get to experience the bliss of advancing in my degree and having the burden lifted off my shoulders.

But here I am today, alive and well. Just trying to be thankful that it is one less thing I have to worry about now.

Plus, I got an 88-dollar refund back.

When You Sound Like an Ugly Old Toad

The incessant beeping of the alarm pulls me out of bed at 5:30 in the morning. Actually, that’s a lie. The alarm goes off, and I turn on the lamp beside my bed, but I don’t get out of bed for like another fifteen minutes. When I finally drag myself out of my warm blanket cocoon, I’m still rather incoherent and mostly asleep. But I as I get dressed and shove my computer in my bag, my brain begins to wake up and the first thing I notice is how my whole mouth seems stuck together, and my throat already hurts even though I haven’t said one word yet today. Is my voice even going to work? I begin to wonder. Spoiler: It croaked like an old ugly toad all day.

Before I leave, I swallow an allergy pill in the hopes that it will do something to fix this mess. After all, I usually end up dealing with seasonal allergies this time of year, so that’s definitely all it is. I don’t have time for anything else. On the way to school, I begin to wonder how exactly I’m going to teach my classes today, especially the freshman who like to talk. I keep thinking about how I can’t wait for this day to be over. And it’s only 7 A.M. Great.

When first period starts, the first thing I say to my kids is that they’re going to really have to pay attention today because I’m losing my voice and can’t talk loud. They laugh, and one student who is sarcastic and never fails to make me laugh says, “Ms. K. are you ill?”

“I better not be,” I reply, “I do NOT have time to get sick.” This makes everyone laugh, and I laugh with them. We move on, and the lesson goes well. Better than I expected, fact. I asked them to look at two short stories, one fiction, and one not, to see how they were breaking the “rules” of writing. After they finished reading and discussing with their partners, we talked about the two pieces as a class, and I swear these kids have never said more in a class discussion than they did today. Even the girl who doesn’t speak at all if she can help it, and even then never above a whisper spoke up two or three times. I’m not sure if they were truly getting into our topic, or if they felt bad for me, but either way I’ll take it. The rest of the day passed in a haze of normalcy, and I realized after the fact that it took actual effort for me to recall anything we did.

There was a point to all this when I started writing, but I think I lost it somewhere along the way. Another victim of the ever-growing brain-fog that’s spreading over me. And while I have no idea if this was the original point or not, something I learned today is that is in fact possible to teach through the brain-fog and the throat that seems insistent about enforcing silence. It may not be easy, or pleasant, but it is possible. Crack a joke, remind your students that you’re human too, and move on. Croaky throat and all.

Wait…I have to manage my classroom?

Something that I have struggled with since the moment I have stepped foot into a classroom is my classroom management style. I just had no idea how to go about it. Sure, I did not want students talking and sending snapchats to friends through my lessons, but I had no idea how to stop it. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. I was just not completely comfortable with it. I have a very laid back personality. Let me give you an idea of what it’s like to be in my classroom. Whatever you want to do is cool with me. Sure, work at your own pace. You want to work while listening to music? That’s completely fine. My motto is: As long as you’re getting your work done without bothering me or your classmates, do your thing. I learned quickly that I was teaching high school students, not college students. While my classroom management style may work for a few high school students, it will not work for the majority. Unfortunately, it took one wild ride for me to realize that.

It was my first semester of student teaching. I walked into my placement wide eyed and bushy tailed, full of ideas, and ready to hit the ground running. I walked into my collaborating teacher’s classroom about 10 minutes before the bell signaling the beginning of first period rang. There was a smile on my face, and optimism and excitement in my heart. I was ready to start the day. About 10 minutes into first period, a student spewed out and directed every curse word he knew at my collaborating teacher. The only thing she did to “deserve” this treatment was ask him to take his backpack off and remove his earphones. Needless to say, after witnessing my collaborating teacher get verbally annihilated by a thirteen year old in a matter of seconds, that previously mentioned smile, optimism, and excitement was nowhere to be found. Is this what kids are like? I mean, it was not necessarily something new to me. I did go to school K-12 in DeKalb County, which for those who don’t know is a pretty rough county. But, witnessing this behavior as a teacher instead of as a student shocked me. Knowing that that behavior can, and probably will, be directed at me was scary to me.

For some reason, I refused to face the facts. That student had to have just been a fluke, right? Students aren’t actually like that. They can’t be. Students know better than to disrespect teachers like that. After all, people come to school to learn. Yeah, that was just a weird, disrespectful, once in a school year, type of student. Nothing to worry about. Now the bell signaling the start of second period rang. Students began to flood into my classroom. This was my focus class, and now it was my time to put all of excitement and ideas into action. Let’s do this.

I took the lead for this class. I asked them to put away their phones and headphones. That request was met with a annoyed glance, and a return to their phones. I decided to push through and proceed with the activities. Unfortunately, students would not stop talking. Again, I am a very laid back person. So, I gently and calmly requested that they stop talking so that we could continue with the lesson. No one even batted an eye. Eventually, my CT decided to step in to get the class back on task. Again, my smile, excitement, and optimism had all disappeared. I never even thought about classroom management, to be honest. Now, it was all I could think about.

In the weeks to follow, I did all the research pertaining to classroom management that I could find. Any article, any blog, and any teacher that was willing to talk to me about it. I was determined to learn. Eventually, I did. It was trial and error, but I was able to grow a backbone as well as develop classroom management skills. I am by no means perfect at classroom management. I would not even say I am great. What I will say is that I am much more comfortable and effective than I was during my first semester. It is obvious that I am still learning, but it is also obvious how much I have learned.

Whirlwind

Spiraling down faster faster faster. I have to hang on! Please! Do not let me fall! OH MY GOSH! I can’t hang on!

As the days of student teaching come to an end, I find myself getting the same questions. So what’s next? Interviewed with anyone yet? What school are you going to next year? Got any offers? Where do you want to go next year? When is graduation? How is edTPA going? Took your GACE yet? I feel my head explode with anxiety. I am worried about what I am going to eat tonight. Not my future endeavors. I want to focus on tomorrow not months from now, but how can if the questions are coming my way every second. The stress and peer pressure were both getting to me. Is everyone feeling this way?

My main focus is my students. Yes, I am focused on graduation and what is next. But they need me to be focused on EOC prep and giving them the material to pass the class. I will focus on both helping my future and theirs. But I will not pressure myself to think about daunting future endeavors. I noticed when I took the time to focus on my future my students began to ask questions. Ms. Right how come you don’t talk to us anymore? Ms. Right you don’t love us? Ms. Right what happened to you? My students felt the neglect and I knew I was swirling down the whirlwind even faster because I was losing them. My heart began to break as I saw their concerned faces. I began to learn as a teacher, I must balance my own life and teaching. They are looking at my every move as their role model. They notice when my life is off kilter and they are concerned. But I  do not want them to watch me free fall into a whirlwind of self doubt. Every day teaches me more and more that self-care and self-love are so important in teaching. I must do things on my own time. I will follow my path. I will care for my students.  I will care for myself.

The Word That Shall Not Be Uttered

It was a Friday. Last Friday, to be exact, and my university professor was coming to observe me teach. Thankfully, he’s a nice guy, pretty laid back, so I wasn’t too worried about him.

That day, we were doing something different. Something I’d never done before: reading in groups. But my kids can handle reading in groups. This new format wasn’t what worried me, either.

There was a piece of the content that made my heart pick up a little.

We started reading Of Mice and Men on Thursday as a class, Gary Sinise’s perfectly nasal and twanging voice leading us along the Salinas River, but now as we dove into chapter 2, my students were responsible for the reading portion.

What’s the big deal? Why was I so worried?

Lennie’s mental disability? Sure, but you can’t force people to see others the way you do.

The “glove fulla Vaseline?” Not even a second thought. (Spoiler: it went over their heads big time).

No, what worried me wasn’t comments that’d make my blood boil or vulgar humor, but something that had far more potential for trouble than either of those things.

“Alright, guys,” I called for their attention. “So in a minute here, we’re going to break up into groups and read chapter 2. But before we get started, I need to address something.” I locked eyes with various students, ensuring their attention. “This is a fair warning for all of you, especially if you read. We all know this book has what we’ll call ‘adult language.’” That got snickers out of some and smiles out of others.  “Yeah, I know, we heard George call Lennie all sorts of versions of “bastard” yesterday.” More giggles. “But now: we’re going to read the ‘n’ word. You all know exactly what word I mean.”

Some nods, many cheeks break into grins, as if I had told them some piece of juicy, forbidden knowledge.

“We are not going to say this word. At all.”

That’s when the chaos busted out. Pockets of students set off in fits of laughter or chatter.

“But Ms. J!” One of my students, a young black man, called from the back row. “We say it all the time!”

Another student two seats ahead of him turned around, laughing, and offered him a low-five. “Yeah, Ms. J,” he put in. “We can say it.”

“I get it, guys.” I sighed and smiled, waiting for the disturbance to die down. “I know in today’s society, it’s a little different, but here’s a reminder: when did we say Of Mice and Men takes place?”

A moment of silence before a mumbled chorus of “during the Great Depression” rippled through the room.

“Yes, exactly, which took place: when?”

“In the 1930s,” a class regular piped up.

“Exactly. And in the 1930s, that term was only used in a mean, derogatory way, to put people down. That’s the only way that word is being used in this book. I don’t care who you are. I don’t want to hear this word. At. All. We’re not even going to go there. You can skip it. You can say ‘blank.’ You can say ‘bleep.’ You can say man. You can say African-American. You can say black man. Just don’t say that word. I don’t want any parents calling up the school and complaining that ‘Ms. J. made my kid say the “n” word!’ Understand?” I could see the reluctant acceptance in some of their faces, so I tacked on something I knew would convince them. I grinned in spite of myself, leaning forward as if telling them some great secret. “Also…I wanna get my teaching certification! I wanna graduate! Are we clear?”

A wave of nods, accented with a few grins, satisfied my worries, and I knew the issue was settled.

“Alrighty, with that fun stuff out of the way, let’s move these desks and get into our groups.”

Later, my professor would bring up this episode in our post-observation debrief. He commended me on my willingness and skill in handling an issue that some student teachers wouldn’t even attempt to tackle.

Personally, I didn’t understand how I could read Of Mice and Men, or any text containing that term, with my students and not address it.

Obviously, this word has sparked controversy in recent years. This word has been used to spread hate, to oppress, to discriminate, to beat down, to demean, to criticize, and attempt to dehumanize entire people groups. Recently, of course, in an awesome display of irony and resolution, some have tried to take the term back and turn a slur into a show of friendship and brotherhood, as some of my students have done.

I respect each and every one of my students and the personal culture and history they bring with them, but I wanted each and every one of them to remember and understand the context of what we were reading. I wanted to be sure they understood that my parameters were no slight against them, but a safeguard against issues caused by a past marred by violence and racism.

I teach English. It’s not my place to try to protect my students from the hard realities of the world but to use literature as a safe means of showing them the faces of the world. Some faces that still slink across the planet today.

Shying away from the harsh issues doesn’t make them any less harsh or any less real, but what better place to stare the world in the face than the safety of a learning environment? If my kids don’t face it with me, they’ll face it somewhere else, and at least in my room, I can rest in the assurance that I did my best to show them with patience, love, and (if possible) a healthy dash of humor.

In the end, I’ll say what I told my professor: I know my kids, and I trust them. If I treat them like people, rather than snotty little high schoolers, they’ll do the same to me. Having rapport with my students definitely helped in all of this because they knew that despite the lack of seriousness in my delivery, I expected their best behavior on the matter and nothing else.

And they came through, just like they often do.

Be Where Your Feet Are

My head bumps the top of ceiling as I get back into the safari jeep again. “Are you okay?” someone asks. I respond with a weak “Yes. The ceiling and I are just getting aquatinted.” After five hours of driving and nursing my throbbing head, the jeep parks for us to get some needed stretch time for our weary legs. As I get out, the dry heat burns my abnormally white skin that Crayola has not found a name for in the white pallet. I take two steps forward and hear a noise that will cause anyone’s heart to stop. I avoid looking down—ignorance is so bliss…most of the time. But I can’t avoid the unavoidable for long, so I look down. Sure enough, my pants just ripped. Not just a little bit, no. The entire back side of my right pant leg fell off. Maybe it was the head injury that the jeep ceiling gave me or my lack of water that day, but nothing was going to stop me from the night Safari.

Sammy lifts the roof of the jeep, something I wish he’d done five hours ago. We hop back in. Sammy and I talk about life—about his children, his dreams, his hope for his home, and sports. Well, Sammy talks about sports, I just listen. An hour into the conversation, I ask Sammy when we are going to begin the safari. Sammy looks at me as if I had lost my left pant leg. “Nzuri. We started an hour ago.” (Again, I blame the head injury).

Safari’s don’t have a straight route. There are no roads, directions, or set paths. To safari means to drive into untouched territory with no plan other than to be back before dark so you don’t get eaten by an animal. Sammy smiles and tells me “Hakuna Matata. Look up. Look out.”

People say you haven’t seen a sunset until you see an African one. While the myriad of colors painting the skyline will leave you without words, this amazing vista is what changes a person.  The remote, untouched land takes on new life with each fading ray of sun hitting the red earth and pale grasses. I’d even argue that pictures rob the beauty beneath the fertile ground.

As I watch the scenes unfold and listento the hum of Sammy’s jeep, my mind travels to my students back in the Rift Valley. I think about the orphans and my friends without homes. The beauty of the land juxtaposes the poverty in circumstances. But something feels different. This land feels full and energized. I forget about the lack.

Elephants paint the horizon. Giraffes come close. Lions stay far away. I watch as cheetahs are chased by baboons, and as the zebras race each other. I breathe in and close my eyes. No hand has touched the grasses or trees. Beauty and fullness do not come from the work of man, but from the land God has provided. These animals are as wild as they get which is not unlike my hair most mornings. They haven’t entered my home; I’ve entered their kingdom. Sammy looks at me. As if he can see my mind moving 150mph, he puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers, “be where your feet are.”

I catch myself most days, saying something along the lines of “when I graduate.” Before that, it was “when I start student teaching.” Before that, it was “when I get that one professor.”  When I find myself in this trap of wishing for a job or to be a seasoned teacher or to finally have my own classroom, my mind travels back to Africa—the place where people live for the moment in front of them because that’s all they have promised….”be where your feet are” resonates with me often.

In Africa, I would marvel at the sight of a lion who was doing nothing other than being a lion. It didn’t take effort or training or a certificate or validation from someone else for the lion to be a lion. While I have more training now and I am about to get that piece of paper that says I can legally teach, I’ve been a teacher since I was five and played “pretend teacher” with my friends after school. I’ve been a teacher since I read my first sentence in pre-k. I’ve been a teacher since I started babysitting. I’ve been a teacher since I was bullied in middle school. I’ve been a teacher long before I will ever receive that piece of paper that validates who I am already.

I consider myself to be someone in the business of building character. Reading a book teaches kids to think about something from a different perspective, fostering empathy. Writing an essay teaches kids to know theiraudience, instilling a sense of ownership and developing communication skills. Getting the kid that sleeps the entire class to wake up develops perseverance in a student and teacher.

While students need training to do certain things, they do not need validation from an authority figure to have the character of a writer, a doctor, an actor, or whatever it is that they want to be. While a student may not have the training needed to be a practicing doctor, he or she can still heal others. We as teachers, specifically English teachers, get to facilitate this development. We can teach that future doctor how to use words, how to heal deep wounds, and how stories can help others fight their own battles. Words are powerful, meaningful, impactful.

I write this for three different sets of people:

1. Students: Wherever you are at…whoever you are…don’t live for the “when.” Your opportunity now is far greater.
2. Teachers: We need to be investing in our students’ character and current state rather than ONLY pushing them to think about the future.
3. Pre-service teachers: Don’t wait to become a teacher. You are on a journey as a teacher NOW.

Don’t wish your feet were ten years into the future when you have been given this day. Don’t run on ground that isn’t there yet. When we live for all of the moments ahead, we forget to take complete advantage of the moment we are in. If you’re in the process of whatever, your moment is right now. Be where your feet are…

The Job Search

It is a Saturday morning, and Ms. Ham is less than thrilled to only have been able to sleep in an extra ten minutes than usual. Reluctantly, she drags herself out of bed and begins to prepare for the day. As she meticulously curls her hair, she recites all of her answers to herself in the mirror. She ensures not to sound “too rehearsed” but prepared. She recites her teaching philosophy, the most difficult day of student teaching, the best day of student teaching, what she does when her students don’t understand the material, and what her “perfect school” would look like.

As she gets ready, she decides to wear the same exact outfit as the last job fair. Not because she only has one professional outfit, but because Ms. Ham is outrageously superstitious. She one-hundred percent believed this one outfit would bring her the same luck as the last job fair.

Ms. Ham knew the job fair was only twenty minutes from her house, but she insisted on leaving with over an hour to get there. When she arrives at the job fair, she is surprised by the number of cars already in the parking lot and decides to go inside. When she walks in, she sees a line longer than the line for Goliath at Six Flags. Of course, due to looking startled and overwhelmed, a student aid greets her and tells her to sign in on a laptop. Once Ms. Ham signs in, she identifies the sign that says “Middle School and High School.” Now outrageously relieved, she realizes the line for Goliath was actually the Elementary School line. Ms. Ham follows all of the signs to the middle/high school section of the job fair only to realize she is the first person in line. As she stands at the glass door, it is as though she is looking at a fishbowl of schools and admin teams. Although she is the one looking in on them in the fishbowl of a cafeteria, she feels as though she is the one stuck in a fishbowl, alone.

It is now 8:45 AM and the job fair starts at 9:00 AM. Ms. Ham begins to see people follow the signs to the middle/high school portion of the job fair, but to her surprise, she does not see a single familiar face. Now, more nervous than before, she realizes that she is surrounded by a sea of veteran teachers looking for new jobs. As she stands eagerly at the front of the line, she begins to talk to herself. Her head is now racing. All she can think is “Oh my god…I am the youngest one here. How are these schools going to pick me over all of these teachers with years of experience?!” She quickly whips herself back in the zone because this is not the time to start second-guessing herself.

It’s now 8:50 AM and the superintendent opens the doors. Immediately, everyone rushes in. Ms. Ham acts quickly and finds the first high school table she can find, Evergreen High School. She walks right up to the first person she can find and confidently says, “Hello, my name is Cynthia Ham, and I currently attend Kennesaw State University! I am set to graduate in May with a Bachelor of Science in English Education!” The man shakes her hand and just stares. Ms. Ham quickly realizes he is not going to keep the conversation going and goes into fight or flight mode. As she begins to rattle off some of her past experiences and pass the man her resume, he simply smiles and eventually tells her there aren’t any openings in the English department.

She walks away feeling outrageously let down. He didn’t even try to ask her a single question about her teaching experience…why didn’t he even fake care? Ms. Ham quickly whips herself back in the zone because she has department heads to meet and could not let this one interaction ruin her mood. She talks to two more tables and experiences the same exact thing! At this point, Ms. Ham is fed up. As she walks through the job fair, all she keeps saying to herself is, “I know I’m supposed to be impressing them but aren’t they supposed to be impressing me too?!”

Finally, Ms. Ham finds the table she has been searching for all morning, Sunnyside High School. Just the sight of the table immediately lights Ms. Ham’s mood back up. She finds the principal she’d met at a previous job fair and excitedly says, “Good morning, Mr. Turkey, it’s so great to see you again!” And with that, Ms. Ham sparked a connection and turned the tides of her job fair experience.