Every year it’s the same nightmare.
I’m in front of a class of middle school students who aren’t paying any attention to me.
I point to the board, stamp my foot, even scream in vain.
But the children keep acting up – throwing pencils, swearing, hurting each other’s feelings.
It’s like I’m invisible.
And then I wake up.
Every teacher probably has a similar dream the night before their first day with students.
It’s a dream of impotence and redundancy.
Kind of like the businessmen and their political puppets claim we, teachers, are every day.
But the reality is much different.
Kids come bouncing in to my room, bristling with energy, half concealed hopes and fears.
Before they come in, I’m full of doubt: Can I still do this for another year? Will I be able to keep up with the work load? Will I be able to accommodate all the extra services for every special education student in my mainstreamed classroom? Do I have enough desks, pencils, paper? Have I planned enough for the first week? Will I be able to keep students interested, entertained, disciplined, engaged, working, inspired?
But the second the kids enter the classroom – literally the exact second – all my doubts disappear.
There’s no time.
I have more than two dozen children to see to at any given moment – and their needs outweigh any of mine.
It wasn’t until about halfway through the day that I even had an instant to myself to stop, breathe and reflect.
After my first bathroom break in more than 3 hours, then grabbing my lunch and collapsing into a seat- the first time I’m off my feet with no anxious little faces looking up to me – I think back on my day and realize – I absolutely love this!
My feet hurt, my temples throb from making a hundred tiny decisions every 40 minutes, my body feels like it’s already been through a war… But there is no place in the world I would rather be.
I took about 50 anxious human beings and made them feel like it was going to be okay.
I made 50 faces smile, sigh and relax.
I worked for hours on a new syllabus last week with manga graphics and punchy repartee, and when the kids got it today, they knew this class wasn’t going to be boring. I planned some ice breaker games to get them focused on our budding community of learners. I modeled how we can interact and still respect each other.
And in return I heard: “This is the best class!” “Mr. Singer is my favorite teacher!” “I don’t like to read or write but I’m really looking forward to doing your homework!”
How can you hear such things and not come away energized and new? How can you see such things and not feel a warm glow in your heart?
One of my first assignments is to have students write a letter about themselves. It’s now day 3 and I’m sitting at my desk reading through them.
It’s heartbreak city. Dead or absent parents, lost friends and pets, moving from place-to-place, older brothers and sisters serving as caregivers, pledges to work hard this year and make some missing adult proud. I find myself tearing up and writing supportive comments: “That’s so sad.” “I hope you like it here.” “You’ve already made me proud.”
I go through my Individual Education Plans and see a catalogue of hurt and trauma. Babies, they’re just babies, and they’ve gone through more than I have in my whole life. And I’m more than three times their age!
How can I not come to school every day and give my very best?
A public school is more than a building to me. It’s a temple to humanity. It’s where we go to offer ourselves to other people.
Every action, every thought spent on these children is holy. The tiniest gesture is magnified through infinite time and space. When I help a child gain confidence in her reading, I help not just her. I help everyone she will ever come into contact with –her co-workers, her friends, family, even her own children if she someday has some.
It’s humbling. Amazing. Staggering.
Where else can you see the accumulated hurt of the world and actually make a dent in it? Where else can you reach out not just to a cause or an idea but to a living person?
I’m lucky. I am so lucky. My circumstances allowed me to do whatever I wanted with my life.
I could have become a doctor or a lawyer. I could have gone into business and made a whole mess of money. But I never wanted any of that. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help people.
I remember the pitying looks peers would give me in my 20s. What a waste, they seemed to say. But I’ve never regretted it.
This is what I was meant to do. It’s the only thing I ever could and still respect myself.
These people are fools.
Teaching has nothing to do with any of that. It’s about the children. Being there for them. Being an active part of eternity.
Thankful eyes, delighted smiles, joyous laughter. Ameliorating hurt. Igniting a tiny candle whose light will grow to encompass sights I will never see.
That’s why I teach.