Teacher on Spring Break

Spring Break.

By this point in the semester, a week-long break seems overdue. Spring break has always been my favorite of the seasonal breaks we get in school because it’s usually the first time it’s actually warm outside, and the weather is finally pretty enough to do something fun. I’ve always loved spring break. Since high school, I’ve always tried to make Spring Break into a trip of sorts with my closest friends. It always seems like the perfect time to get away and leave all of the work I should be doing at home. The beach, 9 times out of 10, is always a good location for Spring Break because it’s always a little bit warmer there than at home, and the ocean and sun are such calming things.

This year’s beach trip was different.

This year was the first time I went on a Spring Break Beach Trip as a teacher. Now, I’ve never been the crazy let’s do shots off each other’s bodies while half naked on a family beach kind of person, but I have to say, everything is different when you’re a teacher. Even when you were never super crazy to begin with.

It’s not the way I’m behaving that has changed so much. I’m still floating in the ocean and napping on the sand, minding my own business. Until the fifteen year olds lined up in front of me start smoking and drinking and disrupting my calm. I tune into my annoyance with them and become keenly aware of the kids to my left who are blasting Gangnam Style on repeat and the kids further down the beach who actually are taking shots off each other’s half naked bodies and documenting on camera.

I began suppressing my teacher-born impulses to “shh” and ask  them to settle down. My immediate thought, and what I immediately said to one of my friends sitting with me, was where are these children’s parents? I really hope their mothers see these photos on Instagram. And that’s when I realized. Something has really changed.

Before I started student teaching, I knew a lot of things would change about who I am as a professional, but what I wasn’t ready for, and what I wish I’d been told, was of how much I was going to change personally. Completely disconnected (less so now, though,) from who I am as a professional, my personal life is not longer that of a College Kid. I simply wanted to enjoy the ocean without disruption from a bunch of kids, whom I never would have differentiated from myself a couple of years ago. I knew I would grow in my knowledge and skill, but I never knew how much older I would feel by the end of this year. I don’t feel my age anymore; I feel the exact age I deceivingly tell my students I am all the time: 38. And no, I don’t actually think they believe me. I’ve deemed myself an honorary 38 year old.

This year has done a lot of things for me. I have learned so much, and I have figured out who I want to be as a professional in the world of education. I’ve also found out, so it seems, what role I have outside of that professional world too because, as I’m realizing, work never really leaves you when you’re a teacher. Things follow you to the beach, they follow you home, they follow you everywhere. Teaching isn’t only a job; it’s a lifestyle. And as boring as it may make me sound, and even though it may mean I fall asleep at 9:30 pm on Spring Break with my girlfriends after eating salad for dinner, it’s still worth it.

 

Hot Sauce in My Bag

The contents of a teacher’s bag are very similar across the board. We’ve all got a folder full of papers to grade, a computer/tablet, pens, a planner, a notebook/legal pad, etc. Your typical teacher toolbox, if you will. The other things in our bag, though, tell something about ourselves.

My bag is different than anyone else’s because it bears my unique identify as a teacher. For example, I’ve got all of those “teacher” things, but I’ve also got my glasses, Advil Migraine, usually a banana mints, headphones, lipstick, and whatever book I’m currently reading. Different days usually mean different things in my bag, like on Mondays, I also have my class folder because I have class on Monday nights, on other days I have work clothes in there too, other days gym clothes, and sometimes there’s a little treat in there from my husband (who’s a thousand times more domestic than I am and packs my lunch 9/10 times,)  like a few chocolates, or my personal favorite, when he put a bottle of hot sauce in my bag and stuck a stick note to it that read “swag.” You’ll only get that joke if you love Beyonce as much as I do, but it was a hilarious move, and one that had me laughing off an on throughout my first period class that day. Whatever he leaves in my bag is unpredictable, but it’s always fun. Other times it’s just a nice note or something written on a sticky note, but I always love it, and now there are leftover trails of those gifts lying on the bottom of my bag– wadded up pieces of paper, chocolate stains from chocolate I didn’t know was in there and accidentally smushed, a bottle of hot sauce. You know, normal stuff.

My bag is in really rough shape, and that says something about me too. And no, I’m not about to go on about how rough of shape I’m in, although that could pertain. I’m certainly going to need a few weeks of rejuvenation after this year is said and done with (don’t worry, I’ve already booked a cruise,) but I’m talking about something else here. My bag was brand new at the beginning of this school year. Looking at it now, you’d never know that. The straps are tattered and breaking in some places, the bottom is stained and dark brown (a much darker brown than the rest of the bag), the inside is full of stray pieces of trash (no matter how many times I clean it out, they come back,) and the color of the whole bag is much dingier than it was at the start. This bag has been through a lot this year, and it reflects all of the things I’ve been through too. This bag has gone with me everywhere I’ve gone. I’ve taken it on all of my trips (work follows me everywhere), to teach every day, to work, home. Everywhere. At this point, the bag is like an appendage of mine, and I feel naked without it. The journal I keep in it bears all of my memories about my first days teaching, my first really good day, the first day I wanted to quit.

Pretty soon, this year will be over, and I’ll be sending the bag to Rest In Peace because it has done its job– it has served me well. Soon enough it will be time for a new school, a new job, new co workers, new students. A new bag. And while it won’t be easy to let go, and it’s definitely scary moving on,

I think I’m ready.

 

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.

 

Grading With Gummy Bears

It’s a Saturday night, and I’m doing what every 20-something dreams to do on a Saturday night: grading papers. I’m in my living room, alone, TV on but muted, listening to the rain outside. It’s one of those pictures I always imagined when I was younger and thought about what it would be like to be a teacher. I used to think to myself, it’d be so nice for my job to be planning lessons for all of the books I love and reading papers about them. What was I thinking? Sure, it’s exciting to start new books and share my unreciprocated love for books with my students. I really enjoy nerding out over my love for Charles Dickens and Shakespeare and Steinbeck, no matter how little my students seem to relate.

So here I am. In my living room, grading papers. One boring character analysis after another, I finally make my way through 1st period’s rough drafts. I’ve typed up feedback for each of them and spent a lot of time praising their strengths and making recommendations for the coming draft, trying to ignore the almost inevitable fact that while I spent a significant amount of time writing individually tailored feedback for each student, there will always be those few that pay no attention to the comments and turn in the same exact draft for their final. Teaching is a thankless job. I knew that going in. That’s what everyone tells you. It’s fine, I’m fine. At least I will only sleep four hours tonight and get up early tomorrow to make sure I can spend my day off grading and planning and learning all of the stuff I’m teaching tomorrow so I can pretend to know what I’m talking about.

So back to the living room. I feel so good about myself for having finished the papers in my set time frame. I’ve incentivized myself with the allowance to eat a gummy bear after each paper, so I grab a gummy bear and kick my feet back. I revel in my accomplishments for a moment and then try and work myself up for the next stack. One paper at a time.

I open my bag and grab for my 3rd period folder. I feel my laptop charging cord, a couple of lose pens, a granola bar…where’s my folder? I grab the bag off the floor and set it in my lap, all but shoving my face in the bag to find the papers. They aren’t there. I’d been out of town all weekend and suddenly a terrible thought came to mind: did I leave my students’ rough drafts in my hotel room?

Cue a rise in blood pressure and heart pounding. What do I even say to my students? How do I begin to explain? 

“What did you do this weekend Ms. Z?”

“Well, guys, I went out of town and left all of your rough drafts in your hotel room. Don’t worry though, you’ll just have to re-do them and I’ll give you feedback on the redos.”

Nope, that’s not acceptable. I may have to drive 2 hours back to the hotel, but if that’s what it takes then that’s what I’ll have to do.

“What did you do this weekend Ms. Z?”

“I drove for 4 hours round trip trying to fetch your rough drafts that I lost, so I didn’t actually get to grading them. I know your final draft is due soon, and I know I promised to give you feedback, but you’ll just have to wait for it.”

Nope. I don’t like that either. Can I forge 27 rough drafts? Will they even notice it’s not their own writing. The answer to that question is probably too painful to come to terms with right now. 

Dissatisfied with all of my options, I retrace my steps over the past few days. I know I searched that hotel room upside down making sure I didn’t leave anything behind.  There’s no way I overlooked an entire stack of papers. Maybe they’re in Selina’s car. I rode home with her, and maybe they fell out of my box. 

I call Selina in a panic, asking if she can check her car.

“Hey, are you home?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I can’t find my 3rd period papers anywhere and I’m hoping they’re in your car and not in our hotel room from this weekend. Can you go check?”

“Yeah, but do you need them now? I just sat down.”

“Yes, Selina. I’m freaking out. Get off the couch and check!”

“Aight I’ll call you back in a second.”

Minutes later she calls back with the only answer I wanted to hear: “I found them.”

So after an hour of panic and frenzy, I realized I’d made a problem out of nothing. That’s something I think I’ve started doing a lot in my early teaching career. I think that everything needs to be perfect and every deadline should be met with perfection each and every time. Everything I do is for the students and if I mess up or give feedback a day late, I’ve failed them and now they won’t graduate and it’s all my fault. But these problems aren’t my fault, and oftentimes they’re not even real problems; I’ve made them up in my head because I’ve forgotten, once again, flexibility is key. Everything will all work out, even if it’s not how it was originally intended to. Everything was actually fine,  for the time being I had a small break that evening, not having access to the papers. I didn’t have the papers I needed to grade and I couldn’t get them until tomorrow, so I resolved to let myself relax. Sorry, kids. You’ll get your papers back as soon as possible. You won’t start writing your final drafts until the night before they’re due anyways. You’ll be fine.

And so will I, I think to myself as I reach for a handful of gummy bears, kick my feet back, and un-mute the television.

 

Photo source: https://free-images.com/display/snack_food_candy_sweets.html