Dear Visitor to My Classroom
I am writing this on the cusp of my 25th year as a junior high school English teacher. I realize that to many people this is about the same as saying I am now beginning my 25th year swallowing slugs. It seems insane. Why would any right-minded person want to spend his entire working life in a room full of uncivilized, sweaty, hormone-driven 14-year olds? I mean, you'd think at some point I'd at least try to move to a high school, where the students are a little more civilized and slightly less sweaty, right? Or, why not go into administration where there is more money and less accountability, where you get to call yourself an educator even though you don't educate anyone? And, speaking of that, the salary: Really!? You did that for 25 years for that amount of money?! Most people with the qualifications to teach school could make more doing any number of other things in air-conditioned offices surrounded by polite adults who aren't purposely trying to drive them crazy. What madness is upon you, man?! What could possibly possess you?
Umm...it's hard to explain one's insanity to those that aren't insane. I understand all the comments and criticisms, I really do. I've felt them all at one time or another, and they are all true to some extent. I get it. But I have been lucky enough to also feel the strange rewards of a quarter century with kids caught in the in-between. And it is more than that trite stuff about the satisfaction of "seeing the light go on." It is also about their essential humanity and how grateful they are when someone recognizes it, even though their gratitude often can't be recognized as such. It's walking that strangely fine line between being unmercifully critical and unconditionally accepting. And none of that makes a great deal of sense until you put human faces on it: the stories that a career in teaching leaves you with, the vast population of people you meet because of it and the satisfaction you get in seeing those people somehow more capable and confident because of your influence. And now I've done it long enough that I sometimes do get to see how things turn out for many of those students. In a word, teaching is a hopeful occupation, and I still find myself clinging to that hope after all these years. That's about the best I can offer when asked why I still teach, but that is not to say that I am doing the same job I was when I started.
Many things about the world, the teaching profession, and public education in general have changed since I started doing this. I've changed too. My first year in the classroom, I was only six years older than some of my students; we were essentially of the same generation. Now I am three times their age, my whiskers are grey, and I would like to believe I have achieved a degree of wisdom that they recognize even if they don't yet respect it. I remember a world without computers and cell phones. I still own vinyl LPs. I've seen how things change, and I have marveled at advances they are only vaguely aware of. I've had kids of my own and watched them grow past the age of my students. (I also had my kids in my class, which never seemed as weird to them as it did to their friends.) One thing this career has taught me is that things pass, change occurs, kids grow up, and somehow most of it works out. The problems and worries that drive you crazy at three o'clock in the morning usually seem more manageable in the light of day. And, I'll be perfectly truthful here: I am overcome by emotion (sometimes to the point of tears) a lot more often now than when I started.
But why am I telling you this? Well, the main reason is because you are sitting in my classroom, watching me and my students do whatever we happen to be doing today. Maybe I'm in a particularly whimsical mood and the students are playing along. Maybe I am being grumpy and severe, and the students are sitting in silent terror, cooperative only because they think I might start breaking necks and gulping blood. Maybe they're talking to you and ignoring me. Maybe we're in the computer lab working on an essay, and I am spending most of the period looking at introductory paragraphs and repeating the same set of instructions to each individual who did not process them the last time I said them...ten seconds ago. Maybe it's just a dull lesson and I am forcing students to circle read some article that has no inherent interest for them. Who knows? There are a lot of things to cover in the course of a school year. Every day is different, and every class has its own personality. Because I try to adapt to whatever the students are doing and feeling that day and be somewhat responsive to them -- and because I am a human being myself, with my own set of moods, concerns, and activities beyond the walls of this school -- I may go a different direction with, say, a lively third period than I did with an exhausted, disengaged first period. Even though I say a lot of the same things over and over each day, every class has a different experience. Not to recognize that is to deny humanity, and I won't do that. Today you are in one of those classes. I can't predict how they will respond, but I seldom say no to visitors. I've done this a long time, and I have no problem with extra faces in the already crowded room. My policy on being observed is open-door. I have kids from the high school, college students, grad students, other teachers, school administrators, district administrators, school board members, and sometimes even state legislators walking in all the time...and it doesn't have much effect on what I do. I've even had film crews complete with lighting and sound technicians tracing my steps around the class while trying not to influence the reaction of the students. (Epic fail.) So, while I know that being observed can be a nerve-wracking experience for newer teachers, that isn't my concern. But if you came to see a dog and pony show, I can't guarantee anything. Welcome to classroom reality. Not everything is the most exciting lesson in the world, but sometimes magic happens. I don't make guarantees about what you'll see today.
But I do guarantee that by the end of this school year, most of these students will know more about reading and writing than they did when they came in. They will punctuate better. They will have a broader knowledge of literature. Those who have attended regularly will not only be more competent in all those arenas, but they will also have a vision of where they are in life and where they might go once they leave my class. Some of this is my doing; some of it is the natural result of greater maturity. They will have been exposed to a lot of poetry, but they won't feel it because I never make them underline the alliteration or mark the rhyme scheme. They will have been part of what I call the narrative of a classroom.
All the stuff that matters in a classroom develops over time. I have nine months with these kids, and together we create a story that becomes a chapter in all of our lives. They learn classroom routines, and then I don't have to keep repeating them; for example, did you see how most of them picked up their notebooks when they came in? They just know that is part of what we do here. It is part of our story. I don't need to tell them every time. And that is only one of the many routines and expectations that create the magical ebb and flow of this room.
But you wouldn't know this because, with all due respect, you are NOT part of the narrative of the class. You are watching a single page in the novel that is this experience. Just as you are welcome to pick up a book in a library and read a page at random, you are welcome to come in my classroom and observe. And just as you may find something on that page in the library book that you don't understand or don't like, you may be confused or upset by something you see happen in here. But don't forget that you are the outsider. Even if you have a little checklist in front of you that contains all the things you are supposed to see in an effective classroom and you DON'T see some of those things, look at the students. Talk to them after the bell. You aren't part of our story if you are only here on one day, and you can't know from what happens on one day what the year will mean to them. If you want to come back next time, you'll see more. Two weeks worth of watching, and you'll start to understand the story. But right now, after less than one full period of observation, you have no idea....
Umm...it's hard to explain one's insanity to those that aren't insane. I understand all the comments and criticisms, I really do. I've felt them all at one time or another, and they are all true to some extent. I get it. But I have been lucky enough to also feel the strange rewards of a quarter century with kids caught in the in-between. And it is more than that trite stuff about the satisfaction of "seeing the light go on." It is also about their essential humanity and how grateful they are when someone recognizes it, even though their gratitude often can't be recognized as such. It's walking that strangely fine line between being unmercifully critical and unconditionally accepting. And none of that makes a great deal of sense until you put human faces on it: the stories that a career in teaching leaves you with, the vast population of people you meet because of it and the satisfaction you get in seeing those people somehow more capable and confident because of your influence. And now I've done it long enough that I sometimes do get to see how things turn out for many of those students. In a word, teaching is a hopeful occupation, and I still find myself clinging to that hope after all these years. That's about the best I can offer when asked why I still teach, but that is not to say that I am doing the same job I was when I started.
Many things about the world, the teaching profession, and public education in general have changed since I started doing this. I've changed too. My first year in the classroom, I was only six years older than some of my students; we were essentially of the same generation. Now I am three times their age, my whiskers are grey, and I would like to believe I have achieved a degree of wisdom that they recognize even if they don't yet respect it. I remember a world without computers and cell phones. I still own vinyl LPs. I've seen how things change, and I have marveled at advances they are only vaguely aware of. I've had kids of my own and watched them grow past the age of my students. (I also had my kids in my class, which never seemed as weird to them as it did to their friends.) One thing this career has taught me is that things pass, change occurs, kids grow up, and somehow most of it works out. The problems and worries that drive you crazy at three o'clock in the morning usually seem more manageable in the light of day. And, I'll be perfectly truthful here: I am overcome by emotion (sometimes to the point of tears) a lot more often now than when I started.
But why am I telling you this? Well, the main reason is because you are sitting in my classroom, watching me and my students do whatever we happen to be doing today. Maybe I'm in a particularly whimsical mood and the students are playing along. Maybe I am being grumpy and severe, and the students are sitting in silent terror, cooperative only because they think I might start breaking necks and gulping blood. Maybe they're talking to you and ignoring me. Maybe we're in the computer lab working on an essay, and I am spending most of the period looking at introductory paragraphs and repeating the same set of instructions to each individual who did not process them the last time I said them...ten seconds ago. Maybe it's just a dull lesson and I am forcing students to circle read some article that has no inherent interest for them. Who knows? There are a lot of things to cover in the course of a school year. Every day is different, and every class has its own personality. Because I try to adapt to whatever the students are doing and feeling that day and be somewhat responsive to them -- and because I am a human being myself, with my own set of moods, concerns, and activities beyond the walls of this school -- I may go a different direction with, say, a lively third period than I did with an exhausted, disengaged first period. Even though I say a lot of the same things over and over each day, every class has a different experience. Not to recognize that is to deny humanity, and I won't do that. Today you are in one of those classes. I can't predict how they will respond, but I seldom say no to visitors. I've done this a long time, and I have no problem with extra faces in the already crowded room. My policy on being observed is open-door. I have kids from the high school, college students, grad students, other teachers, school administrators, district administrators, school board members, and sometimes even state legislators walking in all the time...and it doesn't have much effect on what I do. I've even had film crews complete with lighting and sound technicians tracing my steps around the class while trying not to influence the reaction of the students. (Epic fail.) So, while I know that being observed can be a nerve-wracking experience for newer teachers, that isn't my concern. But if you came to see a dog and pony show, I can't guarantee anything. Welcome to classroom reality. Not everything is the most exciting lesson in the world, but sometimes magic happens. I don't make guarantees about what you'll see today.
But I do guarantee that by the end of this school year, most of these students will know more about reading and writing than they did when they came in. They will punctuate better. They will have a broader knowledge of literature. Those who have attended regularly will not only be more competent in all those arenas, but they will also have a vision of where they are in life and where they might go once they leave my class. Some of this is my doing; some of it is the natural result of greater maturity. They will have been exposed to a lot of poetry, but they won't feel it because I never make them underline the alliteration or mark the rhyme scheme. They will have been part of what I call the narrative of a classroom.
All the stuff that matters in a classroom develops over time. I have nine months with these kids, and together we create a story that becomes a chapter in all of our lives. They learn classroom routines, and then I don't have to keep repeating them; for example, did you see how most of them picked up their notebooks when they came in? They just know that is part of what we do here. It is part of our story. I don't need to tell them every time. And that is only one of the many routines and expectations that create the magical ebb and flow of this room.
But you wouldn't know this because, with all due respect, you are NOT part of the narrative of the class. You are watching a single page in the novel that is this experience. Just as you are welcome to pick up a book in a library and read a page at random, you are welcome to come in my classroom and observe. And just as you may find something on that page in the library book that you don't understand or don't like, you may be confused or upset by something you see happen in here. But don't forget that you are the outsider. Even if you have a little checklist in front of you that contains all the things you are supposed to see in an effective classroom and you DON'T see some of those things, look at the students. Talk to them after the bell. You aren't part of our story if you are only here on one day, and you can't know from what happens on one day what the year will mean to them. If you want to come back next time, you'll see more. Two weeks worth of watching, and you'll start to understand the story. But right now, after less than one full period of observation, you have no idea....
posted by MRT at 5:00 PM
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