there will be blood

Yesterday I was suppose to go to an all day professional development for writing with rest of of English Department.  I spent the day in limbo.  All day my thoughts were pretty much like this:

 "Where's my sub?  When will a sub arrive?  Should I just forget going to the professional development?  But I've already planned for a sub to be here and I want to be with the rest of the English Department?  Why won't anyone tell me what's going on?  This sucks.  Ugh, there goes Laura, she skipped my class again.  I'm just going to pretend not to see her for now.  I need to each lunch..."

For the whole day I was is this anticipatory state of mind... waiting for someone to relieve me, but no one showed up to cover my classes and I missed 98% of the professional development.  I went for 20 minutes here and there during my free periods, but I was lost for most of the time.  But I did enter the professional development during an interesting conversation about teaching, which was inspired by the poem "An Horaton Notion" by Thomas Lux.  What resonated with me and my colleagues the most was the poem's message.  Which was: it's an undeniable fact that we will all bleed for this profession.  

And in my case I've also become a crier, developed insomnia, gained 10 pounds, and constantly wonder if my life will get any better.  

Skip now to today. 

Twice I heard that a teacher's job doesn't end at 3 or when she/he finishes teaching their last class of the day.  I would be so much happier and less stressed out if I could figure out a way to not have to grade when I get home, or on the weekends, if I didn't have to worry about my students and if they'll do well on the Regents, SATs, or AP exam, or I think I would be a lot happier if I had a support system outside of teaching.  After I've left graduate school I lost all my friends.  They're mostly scattered now through out the country teaching.  My life is work and it's bleeding me dry.

For example, today was just one of those days where I felt like the world was against me and I just wanted to cry and cry and cry.  It's so hard in New York sometimes.  It's a great city to visit, but when there's no food on the self, no clean clothes in the closet, and a million errands to run, but you have to do it with a big red utility cart with only an hour to spare then all you want to do is cry and quit life.  

I hope I'm not complaining too much.  I didn't want to write this blog.  I didn't want to write at all.  I just wanted to drink, and eat Chinese food, then pass out in my bed, but then I have no money for either wine or Chinese food and there are no sheets on my bed.  So (with my boyfriend's repeated suggestions) I've decided to take to my blog and show the world what it's really like as a first year teacher, in a new city, friendless, and with a job that I love but that has been known to bring me to my knees exhausted, humbled, and mad.

God I hope all of this will get better.  I'm so overworked and I feel like my life is falling apart around me.  What's a new teacher to do?

you do it 

so consciously driven

by your unconscious that the thing become a wedge...

the wedge then grows...

a life of its own.  Inspiration.

An Horaton Notion, By Thomas Lux

what did emily do?

20 compare and contrast term papers are sitting in my kitchen, The Bluest Eye is still not read (I teach it tomorrow), and it's past my bed time, but what do I want to do more than anything?  Well, other than lay out on the beaches of Maui... blog, of course.  

Last week was interesting.  I don't want to recap the drama, but instead I want to focus on one of the surprising highlights of the week.  With the second quarter right around the corner and with less than a week left before grades are due I decided to introduce my students to description and exposition (our next unit of study) via the kiddie pool, and plus, I really wasn't up for starting something new and complicated right away.  So, last Monday we started studying poetry (Billy Collins and Emily Dickinson to be exact).  It was dear Emily that got the kids stirring and excited to learn.  One class period was used to deconstruct her poem, "A Narrow Fellow in the Grass" and the next class period was used to emulate her art of description.  

For those who aren't too familiar with the poem, it's about a snake in the grass, but she never explicitly says that the poem is about a snake but because she's a master at description it was clear what the subject was.  So I printed out beautiful colored pictures for my kids (a lady bug, butterfly, frog, a NYC subway rat...) and had them write a highly descriptive poem about their subject but, just like Emily, never explicitly telling the reader what they are writing about.  

The students huddled into their groups excited, giggly, and laughing as they tried to create a poem about their subject that would stump their classmates.  There was that hum in the air that maybe only teachers know about.  The hum is something living, something that feels like active learning and engagement is taking place... it's like watching an elaborate machine work without a hitch, a glitch, or a skip.  At the end of their group time, the students shared their poems, kids were guessing everything from camels to an earth worm.  My most sleepiest students were awake and raising their hands to guess, my student with Autism was laughing with everyone else, and for the first time really seemed a part of the class.  As the kids were leaving, I reminded them to not tell the 7th period class what pictures the poems were going to be based on because I wanted them to have the same unadulterated experience.  But of course I said it in my bossy and my not-so-threatening teacher voice.

I could tell some were struggling to keep this a secret from their friends as they shifted glances back and forth across the room to their peers.  Right before I dismissed my kids for the day  one student raised his hand and asked, "Well, can we at least tell them that we had fun?"  I couldn't help but smile and wanted to hug the boy, but of course, my smile was short lived.  

"I'm gonna tell them we talked about zebras and mooses!"  yelled one student as everyone shuffled to exit the room.

Note to self: Monday, Nov. 10th... do a mini lesson on irregular plural nouns.

x,

Ms. P

what a wonderful week

When I was interviewing for a teaching position at my current school they asked if I was willing to teach journalism along with the 4 other English classes that I would be teaching.  For someone who fancy's themselves a writer, and who was hungry for a job I eagerly and probably too enthusiastically said yes.  Well, after a little over a month of school, I was finally tracked down and... ("forced" is too strong of a word) umm... reminded that I was to lead an after school journalism program (2 times a week).  My days already seem too long and the last thing I wanted to do was add one more thing onto my constantly growing things-to-do list.  

So I made flyers, and posted them around the school secretly praying that my flyers wouldn't attract any attention.  The first time my little journalism program met I only had 1 student show up, but after a few weeks more and more students started to show up and these were students who are eager to learn and to write.  It's somewhat ironic that the responsibility that I avoided the most ultimately became the best part of my day.  Last Wednesday, my students didn't want to leave.  I was out of material, our 41 minutes was up, but they wanted to still stay and talk.  After class, 2 of my students came back into the classroom giggly and excited because they finally had an idea for an article that they wanted to write about- senioritis.  I gave my thumbs up and said that it was a fine topic :)   

Then later that same week one of my young journalist emailed me to tell me how excited she was about the after school journalism program.  I was shocked by all the excitement around what I was doing.  The kids believed in it... in me.  To be honest, I barely planned anything for the course, not because I do want to, but that I at first say it as just one more thing for me to do.  The students faithfully come, often arriving at the classroom before me and can't seem to get enough of the inverted pyramid, or about possible newspaper topics that are still up for grabs.  

How did I get so lucky?  Perhaps God knew that amongst all the craziness of my new life as a young professional that what I needed most in life right now was just one more responsibility.  And not just any responsibility, but one that allowed me to get back to what I loved about teaching... the intimacy that is created in the classroom with students who love the invincibility of life, love being a teenager, and who love sitting around an  idealistic and crazy teacher too green for her own good.  My small group of journalist have inspired me and have encouraged me to keep up on my own personal study of literature and journalism.  It wasn't too long ago that I had my own hopes and dreams of living in New York City and being a writer for Marie Claire or Vanity Fair.  

x,

Ms. P