I've figured out what it means to be a teacher.
Being a teacher means being considerate of the feelings of others, even when yours have been trampled over. Being a teacher means caring about people who will move on and may or may not care about you. Being a teacher means feeling bad when you don't care about people - or feeling bad when you realize that you just yelled back at some kid who'd just been yelled at for being late to school because her father dropped her off late...and then got a DUI leaving the school parking lot. People like holding on to righteous anger. We like feeling like we are in the right for getting upset. And most of the time, being a teacher means either being filled with impotent righteous fury or realizing that your wrath is misplaced.
I figured all this out yesterday after having one of the worst days in the world.
Shaking with anger because some kid always had "something to say..." (as my grandmother would put it) I kicked him out of class and told him to get his act together. He eventually apologized, but not before hearing my voice crack as I expressed my...uh...great dissatisfaction with his performance. Of course, this was right after kicking out another student who was "helping me" by telling him to "shut the hell up". To quote the immortal Governor Palin, I had to say "Thanks, but no thanks..." to her help. By the end of class, it was all I could do to keep from bursting in to angry tears.
Realizing that my next class would be coming in, and that they had nothing to do with the fiasco the class period before, I slid my mask into place. And actually, it was a little scary...how easy it was to do that, I mean. Keeping my anger contained, to avoid hurting the feelings of some doe eyed child who happened to drop her pencil on the floor, I welcomed them into class, allowed them to drop off their things before heading to the cafeteria...and then I retreated to the teacher's lounge. I bought a soda, heated up my frozen lunch - numbly - and glanced up at myself in the mirror. My sweater was twisted to one side. My jeans were really as wrinkly as one of my students had commented ("Miss P," she'd said, "Imma need to know why yo' jeans is so wrinkly!" She was teasing me good naturedly, and I wasn't really in the mood for it. Again, wasn't her fault, but... "Why is your face so wrinkly?" I replied, without thinking. I can already hear the parent phone call....) The mask slid off. Big salt tears rolled down my cheeks. And looking at myself, looking so vulnerable, looking so weak for letting those kids get to me...I cried.
Being a teacher means wearing a mask...much like being a model or dating a man...
Maybe I am cut out for this job.
And now, to ponder the more important things in life....like, "just because a man looks like a rapist, does that mean he's not eligible for dating?" I mean, I wouldn't want to judge a DVD by it's Amray.
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