I posted this particular piece one year ago, but since so many of my friends will kick off the school year in new teaching positions, I'm tossing it up here again. Best wishes to those who have the courage to stand boldly before their students and endeavor to guide with patience and love.
Dear
thirty-five-year-old Kay,
On this first day, you're thinking you might be too old to begin
teaching. I'm looking at you from this vantage point of sixty, and I'm
laughing.
I also see that you are proud and thrilled to be teaching in this brand
new classroom with white boards which you are thinking
are so cool and high tech, but girl, just wait.
Somebody out there is working on this thing called a Smart Board. You ain't
seen nothin' yet.
You should know that your carefully crafted yet coded lecture on this
first day of school about not allowing "hate speech" in your
classroom will become far more bold as time goes on and far less necessary. The
time will come—yes, within your lifetime—when your LGBT students will be safely
out and no longer in need of your protection.
You do not know this yet, but the kids who are about to swagger through
the door, looking at you sideways and pretending disinterest, are actually
watching every move you make, hearing every word you utter and weighing it,
making judgments from the first seconds in your room as to whether you are
trustworthy and kind or someone to be feared. Yes, they will seem puffed up,
but they are really just frightened little bear cubs, standing on their hind
legs, trying to appear large and intimidating. Inside they fear being called
out and embarrassed by you or their classmates. Your first duty always is to
help them feel safe. But don't be afraid to look them in the eye; for good or
for bad, there is power in every word you say to them.
This year, you will make friends with the school librarian who will
later be the best teacher-bud you will ever have. Hold onto this friendship as
if it were the holy grail. Donna will keep you sane through all the craziness,
anger, laughter and tears that are heading your way like a speeding locomotive.
At the end of the school year, take a picture of each class and keep
those photos in an album in your room. You'll want to pull them out and
reminisce over them when your former students stop by. And they will stop by.
Warning: Next year you'll have a student named Tabitha J. You will ask
Miss J. no less than fifty times in 180 days to "Please step outside"
so you can reiterate a lecture you're sick of giving and she's sick of hearing
about how to behave appropriately in a classroom. She will be the bane of your
work time existence for the entire year. Just wait. Eight years later, on a
quiet afternoon, the phone will ring, and it will be Miss J.,
calling to let you know she is now a college student working toward the goal of
being a teacher "just like you" and to thank you for never giving up
on her, thus beginning a legacy of naughty kids who will return, year after
year, to thank you for caring about them as individuals despite their dismal
grades in your class.
Your experience with Miss J. will also introduce you to one of the few
aspects of your job you genuinely dislike, which is dealing with self-absorbed,
unreasonable, ignorant parents. You should know now that throughout the whole
of your career, you will be cussed out and threatened far more by parents than
you will be by kids. When that happens, just let it go. Head for the gym or go
for a run or walk the dogs, and as the sun goes down, let the conversation
disappear into the wind.
Oh, and that advice your university professor gave you about never
hugging the kids? Throw that out the window. When they need a hug, hug them.
But be prepared; they will break your heart with stories of family tragedy.
There will be a boy whose father shot his mother and then shot himself—in front
of the boy. Don't worry about teaching him anything. Just love him. Seven years
later you will hear your name called in a Petsmart parking lot and there he
will be, this boy who battled all the demons a boy can face in high school,
smiling and hugging you and telling you that he is in his third year of college
now, looking forward to finishing his degree.
So don't worry. Your heart will be broken often and just as often it
will be mended by the daily laughter and love that will fill your classroom
from top to bottom, more so with every year that you teach. Because with every
year, you will love them more. In fact, there will come a day—September 11,
2001, to be precise—when you will begin to tell all your students every day
that you love them.
Be ready to learn. Because yes, going into this gig, you've already
raised four kids of your own, and you've got heaps of fancy book smarts. But
your students will teach you volumes every year in every subject from fairness
to fashion, including which music you "should" listen to. And they'll
be right.
Despite your best efforts, you're going to make mistakes, just as you
did with your own kids. When you do, forgive yourself quickly. Self-evaluation
is great. Self-criticism is toxic. Be a role model; apologize when necessary,
then move on.
Don't forget what your mentor, Dr. Hubert, told you about teaching:
Learn to pat yourself on the back, because administration will have no idea
what a great job you're doing in your classroom. But don't worry; the kids
know, and they will always make you feel appreciated.
Most important of all, never get swept up in the current tide of
educational trend. Rather be guided in your teaching by the beacon of warmest
light, which is the love in your heart.
Oh—remember what you're mama said, too: Stand up straight. And lose
those girlie shoes with heels; you'll be walking miles every day just around
your own classroom.
