Today was the first day I taught for all 5 periods; my teacher left early to take his son to the dentist, so I taught instead of the substitute. And after an extended weekend (5 days, holla) I’m back at school, attempting to dig myself out of my holiday break mindset. 5 periods really was a jolt to the system and I’ve grown accustomed to having 6 prep periods in one day. It’s like someone pulled the shutters closed over the course of the long weekend, and I’ve forgotten all of their names, what I’m teaching, and even how to teach, so today was an interesting day.
After an extensive and exhaustive day of teaching, I recognized that I walk into work each morning with a feeling of the utmost resignation and I wonder: is this going to be the rest of my life? They say your work isn’t work when it’s your passion; that makes me wonder whether or not any part of me still loves teaching, because it definitely all feels like work. Even the fun stuff, the little stuff, those moments that warm my heart, all feel like work. And I hate it with the utmost and purest of hatred. I want to love this again, and I can’t figure out why it’s so difficult to command the over exuberant passions that used to obsess me to re-enter my heart. Grading, talking, answering questions, even the simple act of walking to the front door from my car all feel like work. Like, they really feel like work. I can’t stand assigning papers because I don’t want to read and grade them. My first impulses on each paper are feelings that I can’t yet trust, and I always want to read each of my 65 essays again, just to make sure I’m being fair. I’m afraid to answer questions because I don’t want to be wrong. Talking to them is laborious and time consuming and I literally cannot stand the sound of my own “young teacher trying to be cool and funny” voice by the end of the day. I’m so over myself. But the worst is that I hate walking out of my car at the start of the day, because I know it’s all just beginning, and I dread the first 3 hours. I dread them, not because I don’t like them—2/3—but because I know it’s SO. FAR. from being over, and I still haven’t figured out how to deal with the stresses associated with starting the day with classes that drain my energy. Period one: Advanced American Literature (junior level). This course consists of 20 students that are afraid to participate because they’re afraid to be wrong. Period two: Speech (senior level) is, in the most basic of terms, the worst class on the planet for a student teacher. Their attitudes haunt my dreams, and their negativity sucks all of the joy from my body the second the first student saunters through the door. Every time I look into their eyes, I want to quit this position. I want to go back in time, plead with myself to choose publishing instead, and make my life so much less stressful and depressing. And the worst part, though, is that I don’t think past me would even believe that present me hates teaching, hates my students, and hates English. Period three: Advanced American Literature (junior level): a fun group of students that my Mentor Teacher wants to keep after I take over because they’re so enjoyable and energetic. It’s interesting, how he wants the best class period and wants to unload all of his angsty, chaotic students onto me. I would say it’s because he respects me and wants me to grow, but I know that’s not true. And like I said, I don’t hate all of them. I actually really enjoy some of them in each period. But there are enough trouble students in my second period class that there’s no way they can’t tell how over them I am. I’m so acquiescent, so defeated, so just absolutely over their antics and hatred of my expectations. I need for them to try, to let me do my thing so that they can do theirs and the class can be fun. But they’ve become determined to fight me on everything, and I’ve become hell-bent on making their seniors years the most difficult and work heavy I can possibly make it. It’s amazing how different both sections of senior speech have become already. 6th period is full of fun and interesting conversation and activities, while 2nd period is mostly directive, with me at the front of the room, asking them to take notes and demanding work from them without any kind of compassion. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. I had a pipedream that all of my students would walk in, excited for speech, but nervous for public speaking. They’d seen me at the back of the room for an entire semester, the young girl with the makeshift desk, watching their learning environment for 5 months without any kind of interaction. I wanted to believe that they were all anxious for my start date, overly excited for the first time I would stand in front t of the classroom, and because of their excitement, would allow me to assign stupid work that failed miserably, allow for me to make mistakes, and comply with my weird homework demands. I wish I had been a little more realistic, because a million more miles of realism would have at least somewhat prepared me for their actual beliefs. Mantra: My students expect me to fail—some of them even want me to fail—but I’ll show them what I’m made of. I have so much to offer them, and I’m going to make sure they learn. I’m lucky to have an amazing support system to listen to my troubles and my hardships. Keeping in mind that this internship is a constant, year-long job interview, it’s difficult to vent to my Mentor Teacher. And while I hear about his struggles and resignation with specific students on a consistent basis, I’ve decided to keep to myself, venting only to my mother (bless her heart), my doting and perfect boyfriend, and my three best friends. My advice to student teachers everywhere is to recognize who your support system will be and keep them close. While I love the second half of my day—these students support me, raise me up and make me feel like an actual teacher—the first half definitely takes its toll, and without my friends and family I would have surely drowned in the first few days. Advice from a student teacher: · Don’t let those little bastards tell you who’s boss. It’s you; don’t forget that. · Find a support system FAST—like, before you start teaching. Know who you can call and cry to about how much you hate and, but also who you can tell about how much you love it. There’s good and bad. · Tell the kids that make your life joyous that they’re making a difference; kids need recognition, and they’ll keep it up if they know you’ve notice their efforts. While I vent frequently about he struggles of this work, and they seem to far outweigh the positives, it’s important that I begin each post with the negatives so that I can build myself back up by ending with the positives from the day. Today was, overall, a good day. After lunch, my students were all fun, encouraging, and entertaining. One student pulled me aside to ask for an extension, divulging a personal secret because she felt comfortable and safe sharing it with me. Another student gave me a high five in the hallway, while another complimented my outfit—a skirt and an oversized blouse. I laughed through a majority of 6th period, and 7th were all relatively quiet and attentive during my MLA introduction. If I could, I would consistently reward my later classes for making my life so much more enjoyable, but I know it’s not fair to always be hating on my earlier classes when it’s not everyone, just most people. There’s no right or wrong way to deal with the imbalance between the halves of my day, but I know I need to find a manageable way to maintain my positive attitude during my first section of speech, or they’re going to walk all over me… More ideas on that to come. A student just dipped into the classroom on his way home—a student I’ve now taught only once—and told me to have a lovely evening. This is what keeps me coming back. It feels like work, and I’m drowning in hatred and self-loathing, struggling under the weight of a massive identity crisis, but there’s always that one golden moment that shines a ray of sunlight on the rest of my day, illuminating the good and shrouding the rest in darkness, keeping me on my feet instead of flat on my back, suffocating under the weight of this terrifying and stressful job. Mantra: I really do love teaching. Mantra: It's going to get better.
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As I watch my second period class saunter out the door on their way to an extended weekend, vivid snapshots of their faces burn into my inner-teacher-soul. Today I caved in, without them having done anything but walk through the door to class, and I treated them without any respect, calmness, or kindness. No compassion, no empathy, no patience. I smiled only when necessary, but not overly-so, and I spoke in a tired quietness, resigned to sit at the desk and wait for them to pay attention instead of demanding attention from them.
I gave in to their pressures and did not demand respect. Instead, I quietly allowed them to choose their responses individually instead of pleading with them. The response was drastic and unimagined. Over half of my students recognized my tensions and resignation, staring at me when a peer spoke out, or watching for my nonverbal reaction to their friends’ behaviors. They waited for me to say something, but I did not. Instead, sitting at the teacher’s desk—which I cannot call my own—I waited for my classroom to stop talking, to pay attention, and to act like the adults they think they are. I waited for them to follow the directions I’d given them, watching as a few were unable to process the simplicity of my instructions and asked repeatedly what they were supposed to be doing. “Put your name on your rubric,” I said. “Put your name on your peer evaluation,” I said. “Pass them both forward. And they looked at me with blank stares, their mouths open, flies wafting in and out without their recognition. Dumbness, I realized, is the ugliest expression. Blankness, stupidity, and blatant disregard are the most unattractive human expressions. Hatred, I realized, is unavoidable. Resentment, resignation, and disenfranchisement are among those inescapable emotions that I will experience this year. But I can’t let my resentment of their resentment control my interactions and relationships with them. Mantra: I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically above the lowness of my feelings. I’d reached my peak of annoyance by 15 seconds into my first class, much faster than I would have assumed. I felt more like a student than an authority figure, more like a part-time camp counselor than an actual teacher. A vast majority of my students completely disregarded the first assignment, choosing instead to BS their introductory speeches on the spot, rambling and filling time with useless inclusions and long pauses. I’ve never been more disappointed in anything or anyone as I am in a vast majority of my first period students and their effort. And while I’m not an actual teacher, they are my actual class; I just haven’t found a way to remind them of that yet. My longtime boyfriend gave me advice about not letting their attitudes and laziness hurt my feelings or break my spirit. He's so supportive it takes my breath away. But as I cry on the phone, he's patiently listening for the conclusion so he can remind me of three ULTRA IMPORTANT things (he says it with emphasis.) 1. They're only 17 and 18 year olds. 2. They dislike doing things, not necessarily doing the things I tell them to do. 3. This is my biggest passion, and I can't let 17 young men and women deter me from what I've always wanted to do. Mantra: I love my job. My kids will grow on me I should have kept his sentiments in mind when faced with the negativity of my students, but I didn’t. Instead, by the time 6th period rolled around, I’d about given up on the day as a whole, succumbing to dub it a failure, a waste, a sham, resigned instead to go home, drink a glass of wine, and cry into my pillow about how much I hate the position I’m in. But when my next group of students walked through the door, the first smiled at me and said, “Today’s speech day, right? I’m ready to go today.” I have to remember that the attitudes, joys, and frustrations of one class—of one student—are not related to their counterparts. 6th period was the light of my entire day. One female student shared a speech so moving and touching that three of my students were in tears. Their comradery, support, enthusiasm and effort are so exciting, and they remind me why I have dreamt about this job since I was a little girl. Their laughter, applause, and support for one and other was so empowering and moving I almost cried after they left. Had it not been for second hour, euthanizing me to the point of complete and utter exhaustion, I may have cried a little in class. I won’t be at school tomorrow; I have to go to a seminar at ISU (Illinois State University) for student teaching ethics and practices, so my CT (cooperating teacher) is stepping in to (babysit) teach my students. I'm so overly proud of them that I wrote a note expressing my gratitude and pride in their behavior. Words can’t hardly express the warmth in my heart after witnessing their reactions to the nervousness seen in their peers associated with public speaking. They remind me that there's light in this job, that there's passion and love and empathy somewhere; I just have to dig around a little to find it. It’s been exactly one week and 1 day since my first moments as a student teacher, and already the last bell of the day feels like a small conquest. Even after an unplanned snow day and a shorter resulting week, the semester feels like it’s dragging. Each morning, I’m still terrified on the drive to school, counting down the minutes until I have to direct a classroom of melodramatic, lazy senior students on the modalities and formalities of public speaking. Each time they walk into the room, I have an overwhelming realization that I would like nothing more than to borrow 23 car seats and strap them in to combat their childish behaviors and temper-tantrums, but we’re taking each day as it comes, and I’ve allowed them to continue sitting in their bid kid desks.
While I currently teach only two sections of senior speech, I’ve learned more from my kids in 6 days than I could have ever imagined. And while I love them and their abilities to keep every second of my life full of sporadic change and excitement, their impact on my mood is an aspect of teaching that I have yet to accept. As a student at Illinois State University, I had the opportunity to enter into the student teachings-sphere early through Professional Development and prologue my experiences in the classroom from the traditional one semester to an entire year. Isn’t it funny that they don’t realized how much they impact my experience? I wonder if they’d make it easier or more difficult. I wonder if they’d cut me a break, or push me harder than they already are. Despite my battles and wavering half-victories, standing in front of the room, I’ve found, suddenly feels natural, and my kids don’t scare me nearly as much as they used to once I’m standing at the front of the room. My problem, I’m sure, is that on the first day, I walked in thinking I was going to change their lives—at least, I walked in hoping they were going to listen to me enough to let me change their lives. I expected resistance, but I can’t express just how much they fought me and continue to fight me from my very first second in front of the room, and just how terrified I was that I had somehow set myself up as deserving of this behavior. Upon reflecting on my first few days and the decisions I made, I remember one week before beginning my journey as a student teacher, when I created a list of every teacher-ism that I refused to exhibit. At the very top of my list was the “I stand here silently, staring at you until you stop talking” expression that I had all-too-often witnessed in class. The sheer terror, anguish, and tumultuous anger—all resulting from guilt and annoyance—spread across my peers’ faces was a look I refused to incite. My very first day, I succumbed to the pressure and “waited until he stopped talking by staring at him silently.” I began my journey as a sell-out, having lost, within the first week, everything I’d advocated for since the beginning of my pre-service journey. I created rubrics, assigned points, employed embarrassing behavior management techniques, and assigned homework on the weekends. I made assignments that were purely academic, focused entirely on educating the mind and ignorant of the needs of fostering an empathetic heart, and I let my anger and resentment influence my interactions with my class. I’d done everything I’d promised to never do as a teacher within the first 7 days of teaching. I’d officially sold out for simplicity, caved in order to get by without overexertion. While I went to sleep thinking about my subject, my students, their futures and their current needs, and woke up with the same thoughts trailing through my conscious, no doubt continuing from a night of student-centric dreams, I still felt as though I wasn’t giving enough, wasn’t trying enough to get them interested and excited about the possibilities of having me as a teacher. If only I could tell them how sorry I was, how much I resented the teacher I had become; I wanted nothing more than to quit and walk away, with at least a semblance of the teacher I had wanted to become as a distant memory, before she fizzled away entirely. Looking in the mirror, I resented myself and my decisions, impulsive choices made in front of the room and the favoritism I had already begun to employ. Thinking of my students meant complaining about their behaviors, their resentment of me and my goals and aspirations, and their hatred of ideas that I had become so proud of. Pieces of me folded into each lesson, sections of my brain, heart and passions nestled into the crevices of each handout, each activity, each lesson were flattened by their protesting, stomping feet and my ego burned red from their (just barely-metaphorically) waving, indignant fists. And now, as I sit on my bed in my cold and tiny apartment, I wonder what the rest of the journey could possibly bring. More resentment, or exciting successes (or, more likely, a few of both)? While I walked in with a wish and a goal, I'm leaving each day with less enthusiasm and passion, and I hope to spring back from where I'm headed. I think about my students constantly, in such a way that I hope betters my abilities to design lessons and activities that will interest them and preserve their engagement. My fingers are crossed that this dismal beginning is just a part of this experience that I'll look back on after they've hugged me goodbye on our last day together. Hey, a girl can dream, right? |