I have many fond memories of the last day of school before the winter break. It seems that in elementary school, we nearly always had a holiday party that day. In middle and high school years, while parties were officially frowned upon, teachers always seemed to find a way to bend that rule and allow some holiday cheer on the last day. I remember having "Secret Santa" gift exchanges with other students in band, and always having candy canes or some other Christmas sweet to share with friends.Always, the last day of school before Christmas was a time of celebration and cheerfulness. Now, mingled with the cheerfulness, I feel a tremendous sense of relief--I made it! While not exactly the half-way point, strictly speaking, I am essentially half way there. The end of August seems a life time ago; I am ready for a moment to pause, catch my breath, and reflect.
In many ways, my introduction to full time teaching has reminded me of an incident on a river-rafting trip I took with some friends last spring. We were on the Upper Tuolumne River, outside of Yosemite--a challenging river with a number of class V rapids for which I was grossly under-prepared. It turned out to be the sort of trip that changes your perspective on life, helps you to focus on the things that really matter, and simply makes you thankful to still be alive. That story, however, is for another occasion. The incident to which I refer occured on the first day of the trip, late in the afternoon, just as the sun was approaching the canyon wall. We had just navigated a particularly treacherous rapid--my companions skillfully paddline around rocks and boulders while I held on for dear life--when our raft ran up vertically against a particularly large rock jutting up out of the river. Instinct and the meager whitewater training I had recieved both drove me to the high side of the boat, hoping to help push it into the water. As the boat rose higher, however, I felt myself tilting backwards. I still remember distinctly that moment of no return, in which I simply had no choice but to let go of the strap to which I held, fall backwards into the seething water, and watch the boat slide down off the rock and over my head. I certainly didn't feel prepared to be out of the boat and in the water--but then I don't think any amount of training would have helped me to really feel prepared. At that point, though, as the turbulent currents pulled me beneath the water's surface, only one thing mattered--somehow getting my nose above the surface of the water so that I could fill my lungs with air. For the moment, I couldn't even think about getting back in the boat. I just needed to breathe.
The first four months of my first year of teaching have felt something like that moment in which I hit the water. If I could just fill my lungs with air one more time, I would be okay. I have wondered, at times, if I would make it back to the surface again, as I have felt the strong currents of student apathy and underachievement, bureaucratic inefficiencies, and my own self-doubt pull me further down. In brief moments, though, I have seen rays of sunlight piercing the troubled waters, and I have a humble resurgence of hope. Perhaps I can do it, after all. Perhaps I can be the sort of teacher I once thought I would be. Now, for a moment, as I rest in a calmer part of the river, perhaps it would be helpful to reflect on those rays of sunlight--those small moments of success that give me hope for my students, and for my own future as the sort of teacher I aspire to be.
My Moments of Success This Year:
- My third period class. This is the one class in which, when they start to get out of hand, all I have to do is stand quietly with arms folded and say quietly "class, I'm disappointed in this behavior; this isn't how my third period class behaves," and I watch them shape up immediately. It's a miracle, and sometimes third period is the only reason I feel motivated to go to work.
- Students who let down their "tough kid" masks in front of me. I have a few kids, mostly boys, who really think they are tough, and who are definitely too cool for school. And yet, there have been moments, usually when I'm keeping them in at lunch or after school, in which they let down their masks, and let me see their real, vulnerable, frightened selves. Then, I can see them as real, fragile human beings just like me, and I feel like maybe there is still something I can do to help them.
- Students who learn, in spite of me. My classroom can be a pretty chaotic place sometimes; I still have a lot of kinks to work out in both classroom management and pedagogy. And yet, some of my students still produce stellar work, day after day, and really seem to be learning. Now, perhaps I can't take credit for their success, but at least I'm not getting in the way.
- Students who are like puppies. In so many ways. But what I had in mind was the fact that so many of them, even when I've had to reprimand them the day before, still greet me with a bouncy smile and love to follow me around telling me about their day or asking about the homework when they see me on campus. Fortunately, no puddles on the carpet, yet.
- Beauty in imperfection. This comes from advice given by a dear friend who was herself a first year teacher last year. Life, especially in the classroom, is filled with mess, disorder, chaos, and imperfection. But these messes and imperfections leave me room to hope for something better, give me something to strive for as I seek growth an improvement for myself and for my students.
