On Tears and Teaching

From a dreary Friday in January that is way more typical than it might seem...

           

           “Oh no.  No, no, no…please no.”  My brain was ordering my tear ducts to stand their ground, for the corners of my mouth to not be involuntarily twitching downward, for my voice to not sound gravelly and choked.  I turned my back to my students as the bell rang and began gathering up cords that didn’t need gathering.  I took a deep breath and prayed that I could scoot to the back corner of the classroom without having to look anyone in the eye. 

            Of course, I still had to talk to the two students that I had hastily demanded stay after class due to their complaints about the homework I had just dropped on them.  “Write me a paragraph about what Literacy class should look like. “  It was an unexpected bomb after a class period of realizing that my students were not interested in what I had planned for them, and these two had audibly protested.  To preserve any sort of control, I curtly asked them to stay after class for a moment.

            But then the tears came, and I didn’t even want to look at them.  Not because I was disgusted with their protesting.  I didn’t blame them for being upset at a punishment assignment.  I just really didn’t want to show one more clue that I wasn’t equipped to handle their class today.   The two students stood at my desk, eyes wide and faces serious.  Thinking I needed to say something, since I was preventing them from going to their next class, I did some sort of humiliating begging.

            “If you have a problem with the homework…if…if you don’t think that class was bad today…if…oh God why am I crying?  This is stupid!”  Yes, I was also interrupting my own lecture with personal chastising.  I wiped my eyes and tried again.  “I just…was frustrated.  So I’m asking you to write a paragraph about what you think Literacy class should really be like.  Because today, it was terrible.  But if you don’t agree with the assignment, then just write your paragraph (sniff, sniff) about why you disagree with the assignment.” 

            The boy stuttered an explanation about how he wasn’t actually protesting.  The girl continued to stare for a moment, and then probably because she wasn’t sure what to say, she extended her arms to me for a hug. 

            Relief.  I felt relief that I didn’t have to hold it together or punish anyone or enter into any confrontational discussions for the moment.  I felt relief at the kindness that was being extended to me from a student whom I was trying to blubber all of my teacher-y reasonings to.

            In the background, I could see students buzzing in and out of the classroom while transitioning into their next class—a class I didn’t have to teach, thank God—but there were also several standing around in small groups, looking over at me and whispering.  Yeah, I imagine it’s a little shocking to see your teacher cry.  Especially a teacher like me who doesn’t appear to let anything get to her too much.  

            I made my way down the hallway with my head down, pretending not to hear questions here or there directed at me.  I slipped into Mary Lynn’s room where our team tends to gather for lunch, grateful for a minute to not have to put on a brave face.  These ladies have seen me cry before.  Sarah was at the microwave with her back to me, chattering about a new crock-pot recipe she wanted to try.  I chatted a little with her, praising the wonders of a crock-pot as genuinely as I could.  She turned around with her bowl of soup in her hands and immediately stopped. 

            “Oh my God, what’s wrong?  Here I am talking about crock-pot enchiladas and you’re clearly upset.  Sorry!”  She sat down next to me. 

            I grinned and tried again to admit how stupid it was that I was upset.   Within a few minutes the rest of the team had come in to sit down and were all attentive to me.  I so did not want to cry again because I knew I only had 30 minutes before teaching again and I needed to get rid of the hideous blotching that happens on my cheeks and nose when I even think about crying.  But, as it always happens when someone asks if I’m okay, I started sniffling again.

            I told my team about my morning class.  It had started out fairly smoothly for that class, even though I had to start the class with the usual reminder of what the beginning of Literacy class looks like—something that annoys me to start with.  We had fun reading Where the Red Fern Grows together – one of my favorite parts, no less where I get to act out a fight scene and use my most ridiculous Oklahoma accent.  Then we needed to take notes, and that’s when I began to realize that it wasn’t working well.  Class wasn’t.  Or, I wasn’t, I mean.   

            There was a general buzz in the atmosphere of students chatting while I struggled to inspire participation in the lesson about summary paragraphs.  There were frequent audible complaints about the length of the notes, about how fast I was writing, about boredom.  I stopped the class more than once to admit to them how frustrating it was, and how I needed some participation and some quiet.  Some kids thought it was funny.  Some didn’t hear me, or so it would seem since they continued to chat with their neighbors.  

It was that point in the lesson where I looked at the clock, and, seeing there were 5 minutes left and about 15 minutes left of work in the lesson, knew I’d just need to grind down and get through the last five minutes so that the bell could end all of our misery before a fresh start next Tuesday.

Originally, the students were going to have to complete a summary paragraph for homework.  Because we hadn’t been able to get through the lesson, it would have been pointless for them to write a summary for a grade.  But, I wasn’t ready to relinquish control over their homework.  I wrote “HW” in large, red scrawling letters on the board and explained that they would need to complete a reflective paragraph about how class could be better.   That’s when the lump in my throat showed up and I began busying myself with cord-gathering so that maybe they wouldn’t see my frustration pouring down my already blotchy cheeks.  

My team worked to pick up the pieces so that we could all get through the rest of a frigid Friday.  Some encouraging words, some lighthearted jokes, and sharing of similar stories helped relieve some of my embarrassment that I had cried after what hadn’t even been the most poorly behaved class I’ve ever seen.  

When students were again traveling out of their classes to our Friday team meeting, some worried (and possibly ashamed) students came to see if I was alright.  Argh…did I say earlier how that question makes me teary?  I tried to look like I was totally over it, like an insensitive breakup.  “It’s not you, it’s me,” I heard myself say, trying to assure them that there must be something freakishly wrong with me for me to have gotten my feelings hurt by a bunch of actually very sweet eleven year olds who just didn’t feel like learning on a Friday in January.   Then more tears showed up, and the three students threw their arms around me while one of them wiped his own tear away.   Too bad this wasn’t the culmination of a long movie where I had just made a difference in the lives of a school of struggling writers.

My teammates gave me a half-hour break while they had a meeting with all 80 of our students.  Instead of our usual team announcements and Student of the Week celebrations, they had a town hall discussion about what it means to be a family and take care of each other.  From what I can tell, the students understood that it’s important to not only take care of peers, but also other teachers and staff.  My afternoon students were angels.

What’s probably not going to make it into their minds, or back to their dinner tables when they inevitably tell their parents that they made their teacher cry today, is that the tears weren’t really even about the kids’ behavior that day.  Sure, I can admit that when a lesson I’ve planned fails to engage my students, I’m frustrated.  But what I’m hearing in my head when the students are complaining about boredom, or about the lesson, or they’re disregarding basic rules for the classroom is, “You’re not good enough.  If you were, then they’d be listening right now.  They’d be participating.  They’d be trying.”  

Seems like a lot to put on the shoulders of pre-teens in my classroom.  I can’t help it.  I’m working my butt off for them—my entire career is devoted to them—so their response to my instruction really messes with my teaching confidence.  I know so many educators in my district who have the same passion for and connection to the kids.  Many of us share our “back-to-school nightmares” when we get back together in August, dreams about losing control of our classes, or students getting hurt, or accidentally showing up to class without our pants.  It’s woven into our daily operation and self-worth.  Sometimes we spend more time with our students and colleagues than we do our own families during the school week.  So, when my lesson plan doesn’t inspire learning, questioning, and wonder inside my classroom walls, I begin to doubt myself.

The thing is, in today’s America, I can’t afford to be doubting myself as a teacher.   Every other education-related news article is about failing schools, unethical teacher behavior, mass-firings of teachers because of standardized test scores.  Even in our own back yard there’s skepticism about a teacher’s worth.  How much am I differentiating?  Is every learner in my class challenged appropriately?  Why isn’t the achievement gap closing?  All of these questions follow us around in the name of accountability.  The question is, is it fair to hold someone accountable for problems in a field that is inherently complex and variable?  My medium is people, and human beings are complicated.    Even on days where I have the most rich, differentiated, engaging lessons and activities, I’ll still have the kid in the corner whose dad left, or whose mom belittles her, or who was just shunned by her best friends in the cafeteria.   It’s not “If x, then y.”  It’s “If x, then maybe y, or z, or lmnop.”   Somehow, though, we’re asked to produce y and only y, with a paper trail of documentation to prove we’re getting each kid to y.

I suggest that we put our best practice strategies toward our assessment and evaluation of our education system, rather than failing a school, or a teacher, for not reaching some relatively arbitrary achievement numbers.  In sixth grade, when a student is struggling, we study his thought process, his reasoning, his skills and assessments.  We have dialogues with him and include his input on learning plans that will help get him on the right track.  We set goals together.   We try to learn the intricacies of him as a whole person and allow for this diversity as we guide him to success.  We talk to each other and build up trust.   We do not wash our hands of him and threaten him, because we know that it’s a complicated process with an almost infinite number of variables.

Suffice it to say that my colleagues and I are working hard to help every student reach his/her goals.  And to maybe develop a trusting relationship with some fragile teenagers who need someone to believe in them.  That’s where all of my effort goes, because I know how it feels.   However, sometimes my confidence crumbles when I’m not seeing the kids achieve what I want them to achieve.  That’s when I end up as a blubbering idiot at the lunch table with my colleagues (or in last Friday’s case, in the corner trying to feign confidence in front of some startled sixth graders). 

I would say that this oration about my humanity was originally intended for my goofy students, but they aren’t really the ones who need the lesson in empathy.  I received more hugs from them on Friday than I knew what to do with.  I suppose it would be nice if, amid a culture where the blame game is easy and fast answers are needed, I could feel the support from the larger world while I struggle to deliver the answers we’re all seeking.  In the meantime, I suppose I shouldn’t berate myself as much when a lesson goes poorly.   All it does is freak out my students and make my face blotchy.