On Back-to-School: The Teachers
Colleen Rogers
As a retired teacher, this
is actually the first August that I have not had an overwhelming wistfulness
over not returning to the classroom. It
has taken me several years to not identify myself solely and exclusively as a
teacher.
The withdrawal process I
have experienced has been painful. While
teaching, at the end of a teacher-summer, I would whimsically head to my Mecca,
the “Teacher Store”, and shore up with an inordinate amount of posters, bulletin
board materials, content area books, and background paper. This initial supply hunt would be followed by
a trek to Target or Wal Mart, to also load up on requisite markers, pencils,
pens, notebook paper and the like—essentially getting everything on every
Parent’s School Supply list as well.
Whatever I bought, I knew would be disappear or be depleted long before
October. I would “replenish” with some freebies by covertly foraging for pencils
from the floors of the school hallways by the onset of fall.
Every year, I would “homing
pigeon” my way to school the week before the first day. With grand flourish, I
would “decorate the classroom”, moving desks and hanging posters. I always had to first track down my assigned classroom
key, which was held in the Main Office, guarded in a secret portal by the
school secretary. When She begrudgingly placed the key in my zealous, enthusiastic hand, I knew I would be beholden to her for
the remainder of the school year. And so
it began. I schlepped my new stash of
supply-purchases from boxed carloads to a barren classroom. I would look like a wrestled, wilted flower
by the end of my runs.
It would always be
hellishly hot in the classroom, and the posters I hung would slide in protest like
paper lava down the concrete walls. I
finally found a tape that cemented each of the laminates without ripping paint
off the janitor-treated walls. (Teacher Rule #47: Never tick off the Head of Maintenance by tearing
off paint with tape). In a few short days, I would gleefully
share my Poster Affixing Secret with all the new teachers, like the dutiful Sage
Mentor and Torch Passer that I one day hoped to be.
When I finished arranging
my modest "Learning Center”, I would circle the building, peering into the
nondescript classrooms with a false sense of preparedness for what was to
come.
The first week of school
was Teacher Initiation Hell Week. There
was a round of Goal-Focused Teacher Strategy Meetings to kick things off. Teachers would show up, groggy and heavily
caffeinated, still wearing the Summer Shorts of Denial. The secret meeting subtext for all teachers was
to assess the Administration’s Support-‘O-Meter, eyeball the new colleagues,
and groan over the building shifts.
There was a lot of sarcastic eye-rolling, some sneaking away for dibs on
the Xerox machine, and lots of horse-trading of instructional materials. Because I, by nature, am such a Suzy Cream
Cheese, I was golly-certain that this year would most definitely be different. So wrong-oh...
No teacher ever sleeps the
night before school starts, no matter how seasoned they might be. Like Opening Night on Broadway, there is a cross-training
level of anxiety like no other. Though
your classroom rules are done, your syllabus is finalized, and your
“instructional strategies” are “on firm”,
you never feel truly ready. When
you wake up on the first day, it seems like you are leaving to work a wretched
night shift in a coal mine. Week One is
always a tsunami of incompetency. You
are training for a grueling Educational Marathon designed to break your once-spirited
soul.
Your rosters change daily,
textbooks don’t arrive, the Xerox crashes and burns, and you realize that
your worst nightmare will be your last class of the day...for the next nine
months. You look to colleagues for support,
but each of you is quick-sanding in their own School Swamp. All the motivational summer workshops, the
restorative beach margaritas, and the promised positivism for a better year is
now bent and spent.
By Week Two, you know
student names, have started identifying Hell Raisers, and no longer need to
tutor anyone on “How to Open A Locker or Tie A Shoe”. You
are rocking your day as a surrogate Parent and Confidante, problem-solving it
all like a Ninja Warrior. You still
don’t have enough rest, but you are getting your rhythm back, and sort of have
a routine. You have scoped out your
bathroom break area, and mapped your twenty minute lunch errands route. You start to wear your school shirt on
Fridays, and You Own It. Still, when
your friends invite you for a Friday night beer, it’s a “no go”. You can’t, and it’s not because of any
professional moral superiority. You can’t
because you’re exhausted. You’ve given
your brain and your physicality to instructing “your” kids at school.
By Week Three, you start
calendar projecting...when is the next holiday, the next early dismissal, the
next In-service, etc. "Will we have a Snow
Day this year, and will we need to make it up in June?" You are not looking for the breezy day
because you’re lazy, you just need a break from the school tsunami. When I was teaching, it would take me a solid
couple of weeks to wind down for each inviting June arrival.
After nine months of
dealing with bone-headed decisions over which you have no control; logger-headed
parents who let their child run amuck; and limited successes with zero resources, you appear non-functional. You need those “break” days throughout the
year to re-charge. You do NOT want to
become one of those teachers seen on the Nightly News—the ones who initiate a brawl
with a parent or an administrator, finally snapping under the weight of
professional restraint. You see, it is
not always the kids. Sometimes professional
dissolution originates from the behavior of other adults —the very ones who
should know better and “have your back”.
So, as children are being gifted
the shiny newness of shoes, clothes, backpacks, and laptops in preparation for
returning to school this year, consider what teachers lack as they return to class. This year, be sure to think about what each
teacher does to set up your child’s classroom.
Consider the things teachers purchase, organize, arrange and prepare. Think about the emotional investment each
teacher gifts--how teachers “parent” in your place, and instruct the “moral
compass” that your child’s classmates may not possess. Imagine how teachers in a techno-world
advance humanitarianism for the children they see daily. Visualize what your child would miss if their
classroom was solely the log-in on their home computer. Remember all the teachers who were such
cherished life characters, whose influence you still talk about... even now... as an adult...with your own
kids. If your child admires their teacher
this year, think about sending along a small gift card or a box of classroom supplies to support them. This considerate gesture will be appreciated beyond measure.
Or, if you know a teacher personally, drop off
a pizza on a Friday night...along with a cold six pack of beer. Trust. They'll be home...and in their pajamas.
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