My job encompasses the roles of actress, speech-writer, therapist, crowd control/ security, researcher, typist, data entry, mother, coach, motivational speaker, disciplinarian, custodian, and advocate for the rights of students. I groggily arise every morning at 5:30 am, pound a cup of coffee as I get dressed, and carry another with me on the road to work. There, I give a five hour long original, interactive, and educational performance for 120 moody, somewhat reluctant participants. Finally, I spend a couple hours assessing and giving feedback to my participants, and a couple more hours preparing for the next day’s original production. I’m in bed by 10 pm to grab a couple hours sleep before tomorrow’s marathon begins again. What, you might ask, could my profession probably be? I’m sure many have already recognized themselves in this description, though. Of course, I am a teacher.
As a 25 year-old first year high school English teacher, I often have moments of panic and disbelief. What am I doing hanging out all day long with a bunch of oily, fidgety, awkward 15 year olds? What am I doing working my ass off, teaching all day long, grading and prepping in the evening, while my friends who work 9-5 jobs get to party and hit the bars at night? I graduated high school and college with straight A’s. I really thought I had school all figured out. As I quickly discovered, being a teacher is nothing like being a student, and most of my students are not the kind of focused perfectionists I was.
Figuring out ways to teach 120 students with different needs, learning styles, linguistic backgrounds, and often conflicting personalities is a continuous challenge. I have lessons that fall apart completely, when I end up scrapping everything I’ve so meticulously planned, and just try to hold on till the bell rings at the end of the period. I’ve fought back tears while trying to reign in 30 boisterous sophomores who seem to have forgotten they’re in a classroom. I’ve watched students with enormous intelligence and potential fail my class because of plagiarism, extreme depression, eating disorders, deaths in their families, and having to take care of their own children at home. And through it all, I do not give up. I get up again every morning, and drag my tired, worn out ass over to school.
Because I also know that when I get there, my students will give me energy. I laugh with my students all the time. There was the moment we were working in the computer lab and Tyler called me sheepishly over to his computer, “Uh, Ms. Sterling, I don’t know how this happened, but I think my nose ring fell into my keyboard.” My first period class deciding to call Hephaestus “Hepatitis” and fifth period calling synonyms “cinnamons.” Or there are the little, goofy questions I get like, “Ms. Sterling, do you got swagger?” Damn right, I do.
Finally, there are the moments I teach for, seeing students get worked up discussing the author’s message about human nature in Lord of the Flies, having to calm students down who get too worked up during their competitive vocab review games, and watching students perform their own interpretations of the fight scene between Tybalt and Romeo in Romeo and Juliet. Some did it with paper bag puppets, another group with light sabers and a beat box chant.
This past week, though, my school board voted to deal with the budget shortfall in my district by doing “reductions in force.” Lay-offs. On March 10th, I will receive a pink slip notifying me that, despite my stellar performance evaluations and hours of labor, I will not have a job next year at my school. How do I feel about this? I’ve been told that receiving a pink slip as a first year teacher in the state of California is something like a rite of passage; this is my initiation. But why? Why do we undervalue education, our children, and teachers so much in our state? Before becoming a teacher, I never fully understood how much teachers did. We are truly public servants. My colleagues and I have so much love in our hearts for all of our students. Parents send their kids to us at school day after day, and we are dedicated to educating them, protecting them, making them feel safe, and helping them grow up and find their own voices.
I feel angry that after giving all of myself to my students and my school this past year, I am getting fired. But this anger is somewhat diffused, because who can I direct it at? My school board? The governor? The state of California? The entire population of the state that has neglected to vote in support of education?
Mainly, though, I feel sad. Sad, because I love my students and the community I work in. Us teachers are something like a rock or a constant in our students’ lives; often we are the only stability they know and they come to depend on us and trust us. I know I will be missed, and I am sad because I may not be able to continue to work and grow with this community I’ve come to love again next year.
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