Tomorrow is the last day of summer. For me at least. Thursday is orientation day for my new job: 11th grade U.S. history teacher. I haven’t fully acknowledged that I’m not returning to middle school this year. I don’t yet have the thousands of words I’ll need to process all that. But I’m excited for the change of scenery, especially since I’m staying close to home and working in the same community.
Earlier in the summer I went to dinner with a friend who’s also a teacher. As teachers do, we talked about how all-consuming the profession is. When she described what the start of the school year felt like, she took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and pantomimed sinking underwater. And that’s exactly right. From August to June. Disappearing under the surf and swimming, swimming, swimming.
Back in April, when we were in the thick of preparing for the SOLs, I wrote this poem after completing some district-recommended training. If the school year is spent underwater, the period between March and May preparing for state testing is like paddling through a hurricane. There is always one more thing to do and nothing you do ever feels like enough. The expectations feel absurdly high, but nobody gets to say that part out loud. So I wrote about it.
As I’m only going into my fourth year of teacher, I probably haven’t put in enough time to offer commentary on the profession. In many ways, I continue to feel as if I’m an outsider looking in. Like I’m still a journalist and have just embedded myself in the job for a story. That’s not the case, obviously. But from this vantage point- having started this career after living some other lives- I still find myself feeling befuddled by the expectations loaded on educators. And how it’s done so casually. So routinely. As if we have super human powers. But teachers aren’t super heroes. They’re just regular humans tasked with doing super human things. That’s what I was trying to capture with this poem.
I’m proud to be a teacher, it is a rewarding profession in a thousand different ways. And I often wonder how sustainable it is. How much it’s impacted my family and mental health. I won’t claim to represent all educators or even most educators. Maybe I’m just too green or too whiney. The weak link with the thin skin. That can all be true and it can also be true that teachers should not be expected to sacrifice themselves at the feet of a damaged system.
“A Response to the Inspirational Quote in the Science of Reading Foundations Module 1 Professional Development for Teachers”
A man named Mustafa Kemal Atatürk
(With the umlaut for vowel quality)
Once said,
“A good teacher is like a candle - it consumes itself to light the way for others.”
If I’m reading that right
My quality is in inverse relation
To the dripping wax collecting on the candlestick.
To the shortness of my wick.
The quiet, wistful burnout of my flame.
How comforting this simile. How sweet. How saintly.
This little light of mine.
I’m gonna let it shine.
No, no. This little light of ours.
This little light of yours, really.
Please, take it. Have it.
My light is your light.
That’s what what Atatürk meant, right?
The flame-
From ignition,
To enlightenment,
To flickering ember-
Was never meant
For the good teacher.
Mr. Atatürk, god rest his soul,
Must be so pleased to behold
All the little lights
Meeting every student
Where they are
Building relationships
Minding Maslow
Minding Bloom
Minding the rigor
Managing the culturally responsive classroom
Being the warm demander
Being engaging
Engaging in professional learning
Engaging in the CLT cycle
Engaging in the engagement model
Communicating with parents
Collaborating with all the key players
Planning content lessons
Planning advisory lessons
Planning intervention lessons
Grading
Reflecting
Differentiating
Scaffolding
Fading the scaffolding
Researching evidence-based practices
Implementing evidence-based practices
Writing goals
Collecting the data
Analyzing the data
Analyzing all the test scores
Remembering the students are more than their test scores
Remembering if the students don’t pass the test, you’re not doing enough
Remembering you do it for the kids.
Remembering you don’t do it for the paycheck.
Remembering it’s its own reward.
Remembering not to burn out
Remembering self care
Remembering self
Remembering
(And this will make Mr. Atatkürk roll in his grave)
I don’t have to be that good teacher
Remembering
I’m the fire.
Not the self-consuming candle
Not the martyred cannibal.
Not your little light.
Not for the taking.
Remembering
Like fire, people
Need to breathe
to survive.
Realizing that
might be the most important lesson
I teach.
Don’t ever let anyone
Snuff out your humanity.
Amen, sister.