Although I'm not huge on actually caring what people on Facebook do, I did have one official "defriending" that made me wonder if we were actually even halfway human in the twenty first century.
When in a conversation, we were discussing poverty and our city and our school, and the individual simply became offended by my personal belief that not all who are poor are lazy. Because I wouldn't agree that every person who is poor is lazy, he just said our viewpoints didn't go together anymore and wished me well.
I'm not sure why we ignore the fact that all poverty is not the direct result of laziness. Perhaps that would leave too much to be done on our behalf...give us too much responsibility. Maybe we would feel jarred to action a bit too violently. And I guess, that would be a shame.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Overwhelming
As I sat in my classroom today, I perfectly understood the feeling of burn out many teachers face. In fact, I think I felt it. Imagine if you will a person in perfect health standing in the middle of a lifeboat. She is strong and sure of her step; she is positive she will survive. All around her are those in need of her. They are drowning...some quickly, some slowly. Some barely have a mouth above water. Others seem to be making life boats out of themselves but they are few and far in beween. Some seem to be doing okay but need the person's coaching.
As I sat in an overly large class of 30 today, I sat in the midst of some who were drowning. Today's writing assignment connected in to the first assignment in which students had to draw themselves as symbols. We wrote a paragraph per symbol the day before to explain which described us the most, and today was to be a day of introductions and conclusions. I'm not dishonest when I tell you that in the classroom, there are students who have never even written two paragraphs before. There are others who struggle to even finish the sentence starter and hook anecdote, "when I was young" So, I'm rotating from person to person and giving feedback and I notice I hear...Evans....Evans....Evans, different voices, different people, different needs. Who shall I save from the land of underdeveloped writing?
And that's just it. That's the moment that I realize burnout is not necessarily the teacher's fault, a way of quitting on kids. Sometimes, that burnout comes from when you realize that you could give your whole day and all of your hours and all of your weeks only to maybe save just one student from the unpleasant fate that awaits them. Just one. It's when you feel yourself drowning in a sea of great need, and the grief of not being able to save them all is more overwhelming than the quiet whisper of the one that makes it into the raft. Let's be honest folks, if these students don't learn how to operate in the land of academia, the outcome is not good. It's not as if they have a pleasant plan B awaiting them no matter their English skill. They don't. It's either you help them survive or they end up repeating the cyclical ridiculousness of their own poverty all over again.
My kids don't wake up and say they want to be poor. They don't wake up and say they want to have a writing deficit. They wake up like any other child, willing to take in the beauty of whatever the teacher may have to offer. But alas, if they are offered no beauty, if they are not offered the gift of independent thinking, they aren't given any other choices to be but poor.
As I sat in an overly large class of 30 today, I sat in the midst of some who were drowning. Today's writing assignment connected in to the first assignment in which students had to draw themselves as symbols. We wrote a paragraph per symbol the day before to explain which described us the most, and today was to be a day of introductions and conclusions. I'm not dishonest when I tell you that in the classroom, there are students who have never even written two paragraphs before. There are others who struggle to even finish the sentence starter and hook anecdote, "when I was young" So, I'm rotating from person to person and giving feedback and I notice I hear...Evans....Evans....Evans, different voices, different people, different needs. Who shall I save from the land of underdeveloped writing?
And that's just it. That's the moment that I realize burnout is not necessarily the teacher's fault, a way of quitting on kids. Sometimes, that burnout comes from when you realize that you could give your whole day and all of your hours and all of your weeks only to maybe save just one student from the unpleasant fate that awaits them. Just one. It's when you feel yourself drowning in a sea of great need, and the grief of not being able to save them all is more overwhelming than the quiet whisper of the one that makes it into the raft. Let's be honest folks, if these students don't learn how to operate in the land of academia, the outcome is not good. It's not as if they have a pleasant plan B awaiting them no matter their English skill. They don't. It's either you help them survive or they end up repeating the cyclical ridiculousness of their own poverty all over again.
My kids don't wake up and say they want to be poor. They don't wake up and say they want to have a writing deficit. They wake up like any other child, willing to take in the beauty of whatever the teacher may have to offer. But alas, if they are offered no beauty, if they are not offered the gift of independent thinking, they aren't given any other choices to be but poor.
I am Evans sounds simple enough right? As teachers, we find ourselves in a world of multiple personalities, and quite honestly, it takes quite a while before a person ever really figures out her identity as a teacher. So much emphasis in education is placed on the content, the tests, the standards, the frameworks, but so little on the largest framework that determines one's success or failure-relationships and knowing one's personality identity, asserting that for students to see.
When I think about my journey as a teacher, I realize that at first and for a few years, I was simply my old nickname of Mrs. English. I wasn't anything commanding; I wasn't really strong. In a world of private school, I had come from a place where content was king and students magically created written masterpieces without much effort on my behalf. I could be weak and wonderfully survive.
Enter me. Enter the turnaround at my school. Here I was, as green as green could be, and I was largely unprepared for the challenges that would face me. No one really believed in the school. People were nice, but I'm sure they thought the school would be the end of me. But somehow, someway, I survived. And I became Evans.
In college, education schools seem to be based around a perfect world where class management is just about having rituals and routines and emphasizing those routines-all in all, it's a bit person-less, dehumanizing. In the world of education, everyone enters an average classroom where most all students want to work. Unfortunately, no school really preps teachers for the realityland of need they greet when they enter the classroom. And it seems no one really bothers to emphasize how very important these relationships are in the classroom.
Luckily for me, in the turnaround for my school, God provided a wonderful best friend. I remember the day we met clearly. I was dragging in a wagon of my things, preparing to me a working "single" mom for the first time in two years, fresh out of my Masters and this bold, courageous, definitely not Southern teacher CARRIES my things including my wagon up the stairs. She said something about coming off of 250, so I definitely thought she was a weightlifter for a while. And figurative weightlifter she was. I owe so much to her coattails, and owe so much to her teacher wisdom I hadn't gained from anywhere else.
Of course, I should mention that because I thought her teaching swag was so wonderfully amazing, when I found out I'd be teaching with her, I went home and cried the entire weekend, knowing I would never measure up to her amazing posters, incredible plans, and overall comfort with public education. Little did I know that she would become the most powerful teaching mentor I've had in my life.
All of my thoughts here today are disjointed. I have so much running through my head. I am sure I will continue to edit and make sense of what I want to say. But for now, I am Evans.
When I think about my journey as a teacher, I realize that at first and for a few years, I was simply my old nickname of Mrs. English. I wasn't anything commanding; I wasn't really strong. In a world of private school, I had come from a place where content was king and students magically created written masterpieces without much effort on my behalf. I could be weak and wonderfully survive.
Enter me. Enter the turnaround at my school. Here I was, as green as green could be, and I was largely unprepared for the challenges that would face me. No one really believed in the school. People were nice, but I'm sure they thought the school would be the end of me. But somehow, someway, I survived. And I became Evans.
In college, education schools seem to be based around a perfect world where class management is just about having rituals and routines and emphasizing those routines-all in all, it's a bit person-less, dehumanizing. In the world of education, everyone enters an average classroom where most all students want to work. Unfortunately, no school really preps teachers for the realityland of need they greet when they enter the classroom. And it seems no one really bothers to emphasize how very important these relationships are in the classroom.
Luckily for me, in the turnaround for my school, God provided a wonderful best friend. I remember the day we met clearly. I was dragging in a wagon of my things, preparing to me a working "single" mom for the first time in two years, fresh out of my Masters and this bold, courageous, definitely not Southern teacher CARRIES my things including my wagon up the stairs. She said something about coming off of 250, so I definitely thought she was a weightlifter for a while. And figurative weightlifter she was. I owe so much to her coattails, and owe so much to her teacher wisdom I hadn't gained from anywhere else.
Of course, I should mention that because I thought her teaching swag was so wonderfully amazing, when I found out I'd be teaching with her, I went home and cried the entire weekend, knowing I would never measure up to her amazing posters, incredible plans, and overall comfort with public education. Little did I know that she would become the most powerful teaching mentor I've had in my life.
All of my thoughts here today are disjointed. I have so much running through my head. I am sure I will continue to edit and make sense of what I want to say. But for now, I am Evans.
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