9.9.09
I grace the balancing act of teaching. Many things prove lovely and challenging.
Lovely: when I can care for and encourage my students with the wholeness of my heart.
Challenging: when students are tired or having bad days, especially my “special” ones, or when their parents are evidently struggling to have their needs met, making it very difficult for them to meet the needs of their children.
My fears: that I’m not challenging my students enough, that my lessons are not structured enough for my "special" ones, that I am a bit too mean sometimes, that they are making fun of me when I turn to write on the whiteboard, that I am driving my principal nuts, that something I do will turn them off to my class or my subjects forever, that their lives are so broken and scant that they will struggle forever to recover from the hardships of American poverty.
And then, there are the bright lights and wide spread wings gleaming and swooping through our school at every turn. The students who spring their hands up to act out a part, or ask questions that provoke mystery and critical thought. The teachers who do good deeds and smile; who debate and believe in what we are trying to accomplish. The volunteers who devote hours of labor and love.
It’s as if we are pioneers, molding uncharted territory with passion and tried strength. Some moments I feel my legs physically collapsing, or my brain depleted of all creative and intellectual power; when all I hope for is that the effort put forth is sufficient to teaching these students something. With standards rigorously imposed (meaning well, but forever daunting and ominous) I create lessons that are aligned with what the state of California deems to be key. I fear that the intention of the standards to prepare students for college may, in some way, be fluked. I do my best, but in this country, or perhaps throughout the world, can your best ever feel good enough when so much is at stake?
