It is the best of jobs, it is the worst of jobs, it is the career of joy and fulfillment, it is the career of crippling self-doubt and soul-crushing imposter syndrome.
Or, maybe that’s just me.
Full confession: I ended last year in a very, very bad place. I was just undone by the enormity of the tasks in front of me. I barely survived each day.
It. was. hard.
And I’m not a new teacher. I’ve been doing this, in one way or another, for over twenty years.
So, I don’t claim to be any kind of an expert in morale. But I do have a few truths to share.
Really, I’m talking to myself.
Maybe you need these reminders, too. (Or you will. One day.)
Reminder #1: I’m a human.
This is fabulous news because humans are extraordinary creatures. We can imagine things. We can love. We can remember and make plans and be silly. We can dance.
We have a concept of time and are able to understand what the word future means. Even more remarkable, we are able to hold some flickering glimmer of hope. Even when things get bad. Sometimes, really bad. Human history shows us this again and again. Our own experiences, too.
Also, humans are spectacularly good at making mistakes. Come to think of it, by this measure, I am completely and totally super-human. Yay for me.
Humans are delicate, sensitive creatures.
This is a double-edged sword, of course. I want to be sensitive, to feel deeply. But my sensitivity tends to lean heavily into the realm of crippling self-doubt, and even a soupçon of self-loathing.
Once, another teacher borrowed my room for some reason I can no longer remember. She’s an amazing human, more amazing than most, and she left a note on my desk she somehow knew I needed: You are worthy.
Which made me cry. (How very human of me!)
Humans must be handled with care. So, as we extend love and encouragement to our students, our colleagues, our family members and friends, let us not forget to extend it to ourselves.
You are worthy.
You beautiful, mistake-making, hope-living mortal!
Reminder #2: This isn’t brain surgery.
You arrive at school with a litany of to-dos already crowding your thoughts. Also, you have a dehydration headache blooming darkly in the back of your skull. It is the result of too much coffee which is the result of insomnia which is a result of that litany of to-dos.
Rapid fire: take attendance, give the lunch count, remind students to return permission slips, check to see who hasn’t yet turned in their permission slips, teach, realize you forgot to make copies/post the assignment/prepare your daily slides, assign, grade, return grades, enter grades, go to meeting, make another to-do list based on mandates issued at said meeting, smile and wave at parents at car-riders, listen to a colleague’s story of gigantic failure/superior achievement, smile, complain about how tired you are, slump to car, home, dinner, clean-up, shower. Close your eyes. Sleep.
Sleep, damn it! (In the dark, through clenched teeth, rapid-fire heart.) Dear god, just let me sleep!
Somewhere here, we need to insert these two magical words: So what?
So what if a lesson fails? If these amazing little humans never quite grasp the difference between a noun and a verb, or a country and a continent, or an integer and a shoe box? So what if the principal walks in and finds things a bit more chaotic than you would prefer? So what if you go to a staff meeting and ask a question you realize is completely moronic the second it leaves your lips? So what if there’s a stain on your blouse? You forgot your umbrella? Your favorite pen? So what if dinner tonight is merely a good thought, never actually materializing into actual food?
This isn’t brain surgery. (Or even rocket science.)
I don’t mean to say teaching isn’t hard, and that it doesn’t take talent and intelligence. There is a disparate and endless assemblage of skills we must accrue to get through a single class period, and most of us are really, really good at mastering these skills. I have a teacher-friend who says, “I put on five live shows a day.” She’s so right. Teaching is performing. And planning. And knowing–being an expert in your subject area is no small accomplishment. Plus all the record-keeping. And we can never underestimate the seriously important ability to handle instances of big and small disrespect from otherwise amazing little humans and not react the way our feeble little hearts long to.
What I mean is, if I forget that I’m teaching sixth grade and not seventh grade, and launch into a mini-lesson on the Columbian Exchange, so what? So what if my grades are late, or incomplete? So what if I haven’t clearly identified what standard I’m teaching today? So what if I don’t quite get to every topic in all of human history before the end of the school year? So what if I confuse the very minds I’m trying to enlighten? Unlike brain surgery (or rocket science), no one is going to die or explode upon takeoff.
It’s okay.
We learn, improve, take a break, and jump back in.
It’s like me on the Greenway, jogging. I am allowed to go slow. I am allowed to trip, to stumble. To kind of hate it sometimes.
I’m just not allowed to quit.
Inspire! Middle Grades ELA and Social Studies 