Overwhelmed.

I've been struggling a lot lately.

I'm overwhelmed with work: I promised myself at the start of this year that I was going to devote myself to being a better teacher this year.  It's working, but it's taking a toll on me.  I have so much less time than I ever did before.

At home, I'm tired. All the time.  No discrimination.  I got over 10 hours of sleep last Saturday night, woke up at 9 on Sunday having gone to bed around 10pm the night before, and still felt exhausted.  After a point, that's no longer just sleep-deprivation.

I'm losing a sense of relaxation from my hobbies.  I love to read, I play video games, I write -- but I'm finding that, when I engage in those activities, I'm feeling like I'm just wasting my time.  My brain pesters this like a canker sore: why aren't I using my time to do something more productive, using the time to accomplish more?

And when I face that idea head on, that maybe I should be grading or planning or reading whatever book about teaching I'm supposed to be reading, the thought makes me want to burst into tears.

I'm in a counseling program as a student, and my research thus far has focused on depression and suicidal tendencies in students.  I'm not blind; I see in myself some potential symptoms of depression.  That scares me. I don't want to be written into that box -- I've watched students deal with it and see the horrific results when that battle is lost.  I've read the stories, talked to the parents, worked to help students who sink into that dark hole, and I don't want that for myself.

What I want doesn't seem to matter though. This is where I am, and that's what I have to deal with.

But it's hard for me to know where to start.

There are plenty of fundamental things about being a teacher that most programs don't tell you.  I won't waste your time walking through all of those understandings, but one of the most relevant is this: Teaching is a thankless job.

Now: I'm not complaining about this.  It's a fact about my profession, and I know that.  But that doesn't change that it's a little depressing.  I don't experience a sense of accomplishment on a daily basis, nor do I gain a sense of closure through teaching.  Even when I might -- say, when students finish a paper -- the next stage is always right around the corner. As soon as students finish writing, I stop teaching that paper, sure, but I immediately start grading it.  That looming task, which consumes hundreds of hours per semester, pretty much eliminates any possibility for feeling awesome that we finished writing something.

The learning process is never over, and being over is necessary for closure.

Accomplishments are more common, but they are so often small that, when my day is broken up into 49 minute segments, I can easily overlook them.  It's easy to forget that the kid who'd been struggling in 1st hour got her essay finished when a student in 5th hour can't seem to get his started after weeks of work time.  Accomplishments dance off into the wind throughout the day, leaving me feeling like nothing much got done.  I understand, logically, that this isn't true, but the feeling that I'm not making a difference doesn't come from a place of logic.

I know that, logically, my work matters.  Students learn to write in my classroom.  They produce solid work.  They leave better prepared for college than if they'd never been in my room.  I know all that.

But knowing it and feeling it aren't the same, and this year, I haven't been feeling it.
I don't feel like I'm doing much that's worth my time; I don't feel like we're accomplishing anything major in my room.  I know that's not true, but it doesn't change the sense of defeat, of failure, that is pervading the off hours of my life.

The psychology of emotional wellness tells us that people need recognition.  Last week I attended a Professional Development session about mental health that suggested that recognition is rated are more desired, more valued, than even a raise.

I have to say I agree: I would much rather have someone come in and tell me that today was great, that a lesson I was worried about was successful, that my students are LEARNING, than have someone write me a check.  A check is great, but it won't make me feel better next week when something goes badly and I'm feeling like I'm wasting my time again.

I wonder if this is all part of the 4th year, of the transition from the survival stage of teaching to the true master stage.  I don't remember feeling like this when I was too busy to think about it; I'm thinking about it now, when I've settled into a rough idea of what I'm teaching on any given day and my focus is more on tweaking things to make them better, not building them from scratch.

The 4th year is a different animal, and clearly I haven't tamed it yet.

(NOTE: I am sorry for the delay.  I've been writing these Monday evenings before class, and this week I did not get to it.  Then, between meetings and grading, I haven't had time to proofread and submit.  I appreciate the patience though.)

Pushing the Envelope, Part 2

Well.  We didn't even make it ten days, let alone until October.

Let's face it: I knew this was coming with this kid (the one I wrote about last week).  When you have a student in your classroom who spends a significant portion of each year suspended, that student is bound to cause trouble in your room.

I was really hoping it wouldn't be inevitable though.  I was hoping we could have a functional relationship, and he wouldn't add me to the list of teachers in Herbert High that he doesn't trust.

Unfortunately, I think that's what is about to happen.

On Friday afternoon, this student turned in an assignment asking him to assess the risks he had taken in high school.  He made a choice, and wrote about the risks he takes when he speeds to work with a large amount of marijuana in the front seat of his car.

That puts me in a very difficult position.

By law, I am a mandatory reporter, which means that I am required to report when I learn that students engage in dangerous behavior or are put into dangerous situations.

By definition, driving over 100 mph (as he described) on a back road near my school is a dangerous activity, as is smoking marijuana.  That means I have to tell someone or risk my position, and as a teacher-friend put it, "I am willing to sacrifice my life for my students, but not my job."

So I have to tell someone -- I have to send him to a counselor, to a principal, to someone better equipped to help him deal with all this than I am.

I just know that this is going to mess up whatever rapport this student and I are developing, potentially even destroy it.

This paragraph, despite being rife with dangerous situations for this student, is quite well done.  The kid can code-switch; his entire paragraph is written in a voice more suited to text-messaging, despite his speaking abilities being quite possibly higher-level than most of his classmates.  He also spends some time discussing how this moment offered an epiphany for him -- he realized he was, as he put it, "a total loser" in that moment due to his commission of several felonies.  He recognizes what's happening here.

This all tells me that he has the ability to be a capable student, he's just choosing not to.

He's choosing to push the boundaries and see what happens.  And while I can respect this, it also means he's a manipulative little snot.

I don't know what I would do, if I wasn't required by law to turn him in.

I'd want to talk to him about this epiphany -- this moment where he realized he fit his own definition of a loser.  What was that like?  What did it mean for him? Is it changing anything about him?

That could segue easily into a conversation about his future: where is he going? What is his plan, and how does this kind of thing factor in?  What does he see changing with realizations like this?

But no matter how that plays out to me, it would have to include a conversation about why all these activities aren't good for his life, aren't safe, aren't the answer he's looking for.

This student needs boundaries, but the other way he can get them is if he pushes against whatever wall he finds.  That's the only thing that tells him if it's truly a wall or just a piece of paper he can tear right through, weak and meaningless.

I want to give him boundaries, but I also want to give him someone he can trust.
And I'm not sure how to deal with that clash of purpose.

Pushing the Envelope

The American education system has failed, at least on some level, when a student approaches me and asks if writing about getting your genitals caught in a zipper is a school-appropriate topic.

You would think that I'm kidding, but sadly, I am not.

I have a student this year who will do whatever it takes to push the envelope.  He started the year with four days of carry-over ISS (In-School Suspension) from last year, and while he was there, he did very little of the work he was missing in class.  I caught him when he got back, and a few days later I got an overjoyed email from his mom telling me that he really liked me and thought I "got him" and how he needed to function in my class.

I won't lie -- I was ecstatic.  This kid has issues -- he once hacked the main website of Asimov School District and attempted to extort the administrators in exchange for the password.  He's a troublemaker, but he also needs a fresh start.

So I spent the week before last seeking out information on him: how teachers normally handled him, who he liked, how he was doing in his other classes.  I quickly learned that he gets along great with one of my close teacher friends, and so she and I together decided to do whatever we could to make sure this kid has a decent year.

He's not making it easy on us.

On Tuesday, we used computers to get Google Classroom set up for our Composition class.  Some students decided to comment on the assignment, mostly to say hello to their fellow classmates since everyone can see it.
This student?  He wrote "penis."  And when I caught it (because the whole class started laughing), added "oops! Make room when the bell rings so I can run out!"

When we had a chance to chat at the end of the hour, I sat down and looked him right in the eye.  "What are you doing?"  I asked.  "You know not to do that."

I don't think this is the kind of response he usually gets.  We talked for a few minutes about how he arrived at this stellar decision before I asked him: What usually happens in these types of situations?

He was honest, and it was a little painful:  "Usually the teacher says it's fine and then writes me up behind my back."

Behind my back.  That was all I needed to hear -- this poor kid, troublemaker he might be, could not trust the people in his school he most needed to be able to trust.  So, in what I consider a great moment of growth for me as a teacher, I made him a deal.

I told him I would offer him two things: 1) I would never write him up without telling him I was doing so, and 2) I would give him a second chance provided he worked to create a classroom of respect from there on.

He agreed.

When I talked to my friend that he trusts, she said it sounded like a good way to handle it, and then told the kid that he should take advantage of the clean slate I was providing.

On Friday, he once again did something silly, but this time there was some growth -- he asked me privately, instead of in front of the whole class, if using the example of getting your genitals caught in your zipper was a good example of failure.

My answer, of course, was no.

I think another teacher would have kicked him out just for suggesting it.

This is not a kid who is actively malevolent or mean.  He's not trying to be gross or manipulative.  He's just trying to see where his boundaries are, where my buttons are.  If I get mad, he wins -- but I don't think he's going to.

I understand what he's doing, but I really do think he deserves a second chance to be a good kid.  He's working through his boundaries, and he's clearly smart -- when I asked why he thought this scenario was a good example of failure, he had a list of fairly accurate reasons, even if it's not the most school-appropriate topic.
He wants to know where he stands with me, and most importantly, he wants to know if he can trust me.
If he walks into school tomorrow to find that I've turned him in, that will tell him something important about me, but instead he's going to find that I was telling the truth -- I won't write him up without discussing it.  I can be an ally if he'll let me.

I believe I made the right call thus far -- it remains to be seen if that's true.  I'm hopeful that I won't be writing about all the havoc he's causing come October.