Raison d'Etre

In our area, two school shootings disturbed the first several weeks of the new school year. As usual, the teachers were taken to task. Teachers should recognize changes in behavior and swiftly bring these issues to the attention of – someone – the news is quick to give teachers the responsibility but nebulous on the chain of reporting that should preclude these potential tragedies.

                All I could think is that teachers are still in the process of learning the names of 125 or more new students during the first couple weeks of school. But we’re supposed to notice behavior changes? Really? Try distinguishing between a homicidal kid who wears black goth garb and a kid who wears similar garb just because he likes standing out in whatever way seems open to him. Try to distinguish those shades of difference when you’re still wrestling with who exactly is in your class – because there is always a lot of class fluctuation during those first few weeks.

                And then, do you want us to spend those weeks sussing out the internal angst of the teenage mind or should we, I don’t know, try to TEACH the kids something? 

As a teacher, we’re definitely damned if we do, damned if we don’t. If we’re spending many days getting to know all 125+ incoming students, it’s non-negotiable that an administrator is going to wonder how this fits in with setting learning goals and working inexorably towards those goals.

However if – God forbid – ours is one of those few students who act on homicidal urges, as a community we’re NOT going to question the laws of the land which make gun ownership the right of every red-blooded American, whatever his parenting ability. We’re NOT going to wonder what cultural deficiency left a student feeling devoid of care and concern for the well-being of his peers.
No. Instead, we’re going to wonder why the teacher failed to notice a change in Johnny’s behavior. We’re going to ask ourselves how it was possible that attending to such mundane tasks as pre-assessing 125 new students, planning differentiated instruction and student learning objectives, attending myriad meetings, responding to parent emails and calls, co-planning with teaching teams, grading assignments in order to further differentiate for the future, etc ., took precedence over the REAL reason the teacher was placed in that classroom – to guarantee the safety of each and every child and protect him or her from random acts of peer violence.

Social (in)Security

     Even though both high school and college are increasingly distant memories, I still suffer from “lunch table” syndrome, where I walk into a group and look desperately for a familiar, friendly face. I long to be “that kid” who is so secure that he or she can sit with anyone, or sit alone, and look contented in his/her own skin. But, after all these years of trying, I have to face the realization that I’m the one who stands nervously clutching the lunch tray, looking desperately around the cafeteria for a welcoming face.

     On one occasion, my daughter and I agreed that both of us are comfortable participating in a conversation, but neither of us know how to get a conversation started. So, when we were together, long moments of silence would arise since we had nobody to kick off conversation for us. Nowadays, she’s a flight attendant and meets new people – both crew and passengers – just about every day. She says she’s gotten better at opening conversations. I’m a teacher, and though I have no problem opening STRUCTURED conversations, I’m still a flop in situations where the topics are more nebulous and potentially varied.

     Just as some of my kids clung to security blankets, pacifiers, or other beloved objects, I need a security “lovey” when I go out in public. I think that’s why I married a man who can comfortably open a conversation with just about anyone. When we attend a social event, I’m like the toddler who has to warm up to the situation before I can leave his side, and then I venture only so far before I have to come back and touch base.

     So, if you happen to see me, be sure and get the conversation rolling before I get that desperate look.

Seriously…Some Dirt IS Younger than I

When you teach 15-year-olds, as I do, the generation gap is glaringly obvious on a routine basis. As yearbook adviser, I chuckle at teachers who obsess over how their pictures will appear in print. To our target audience of 14-19 year-olds, anyone with the least hint of smile lines or crows’ feet is hopelessly over-the-hill, so why worry about whether the camera captured your very best angle?

However, over the last few years another insidious gap has crept into the high school I call home base. The administration’s preference for “moldable” candidates in concert with the budgetary preference for teachers at the lowest rung of the salary scale have combined to produce an influx of teachers who share more cultural memories with my children than they share with me.

It’s always been the case in education that any given school would have a mix of teachers varying in age and experience, but the pendulum has shifted lately, and the bell curve at my school is no longer smooth and balanced. Instead, it bulges at the lower end, peaking at approximately age 30, and making a rapid descent thereafter.

Spending my days mingling with more than 1900 teenagers as well as dozens of colleagues who have yet to experience their 10^th high school reunion, my own advancing age is a realization that cannot help but slap me “upside the head.” So, as I spend my weekends trying to clean my house before another school week begins, I do stop now and then to recognize my affinity with the dirt I’m trying to sweep. Here’s to you dirt - we’re both really, really old.

Cryptic Messages We'd Rather Not Hear

I asked, I thought humbly, to be shown a path. The path I was shown has been, in so many ways, a bitter pill to swallow. Before I received my marching orders, I felt like there were so many signs that this was emphatically not my path, but the incontrovertible evidence arrived today that it is, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it.

Naturally, being me, I can fight against it and say, “Okay, really, I’m giving you another chance - show me my path, as long as it’s not this one.” Or, I can find a way to walk this one with grace. Right now, it’s a toss up as to which way I’ll be able to go.

I feel like Bruce in Bruce Almighty, and it's an almighty uncomfortable place to be.

Building on a Weak Foundation

Ugh. Muscles are so much work. Right now, I’m walking, doing yoga, and (in the summer) swimming to try to beat mine into shape, but they’re fighting back. The conversation goes something like this:

Me: I’ve been doing 90 minutes of yoga at least twice a week for the past eight months. You should be getting stronger! Why is downward facing dog still a challenge? And what about warrior 3? Come on, muscles!

Muscles: We’ve been clinging onto these old bones for more than half a century. We’re tired, and we’re definitely ready to let go and sag.

Me: No! No! No! I don’t want old lady arms – and that belly – forget it! You can still maintain some semblance of sleekness if we work together.

Muscles: Come on, you're built like a female version of Ichabod Crane. What kind of results do you expect, here? Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

Me: I'm not looking for Miss America, but I don't want to scare small children when I take my youngest - who won't be five until next week - to kindergarten.

Muscles: You won't be taking him anyway. You'll be at work. And to the high school students you teach, you looked ancient as soon as you by-passed 30, so forget about it.

Me: Well, some days I'll get to pick him up. And there I'll be, surrounded by moms about the age of my oldest kid. I have to at least make an attempt, here.

Muscles: (snickering under their breaths) You go ahead and keep working out. On your days off, we’ll backpedal as fast as you can try to build us. It’ll be fun.

Me: (still fighting resignation). Sigh. I guess I just have to work harder.

Muscles: Good luck, Ichabod-ess.

When Seasons Converge

Okay, it's been an unusually warm winter, so the daffodils resemble the kids in 3rd grade who grew extra fast so that the teacher has to bring in a couple 5th grade desks....but the seasons I'm talking about involve youth sports. Today, my newly minted 11 year old has a basketball playoff game, to which we must bring, in addition to the b-ball uniform, all his lacrosse gear so we can immediately head out to lacrosse tryouts...after that, we get to relax (read do laundry, vacuum, make dinner) for about two hours until it's time to get him dressed and over the elementary school's annual variety show, timed for this weekend, I suppose...to hit the sports hiatus?