Thinking About School. . .

Teaching is a strange career. I came to it later in life after having spent 20 years denying I was going to employ my (super-useful) English degree to become a teacher. So here I am, going into my eighth year of teaching and realizing that I never cared this much about any of my other jobs. I would liken teaching to pastoring in that teachers and pastors both spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about the people they work with/for. Both professions (this may apply to nursing/doctors too--I'm not close enough to either of those to say for sure) are singularly concerned with the well-being of others. One educational, one spiritual.

My father was a pastor for nearly three decades and although he is still working to serve people, he doesn't fulfill that role as a pastor. Why? Well, I think for the same reasons that so many teachers leave the profession within the first 10 years. It wasn't the needs of the congregants per se, but the politics behind the scenes and the overwhelming worry of not doing enough good for enough people.

I know when I reflect over the year that has passed, I look with sorrow at the students that I know have slipped through the cracks. Maybe they were the ones who were middle of the road and didn't improve their writing/reading skills the way I know they could. Some were the highly intelligent kids who did the work, sat quietly and were never challenged (ie: bored). I hate that students would pass through my classroom and be bored but I don't know how to overcome the constant behavioral issues and political demands that sucked time away from these awesome kids.

When good professionals leave the field that they've chosen and trained for and invested so much time in, there should be a riot. There should be a public outcry. People should stand on the streets with signs and chant loudly from the Bible or from the works of Dickens. Instead there's only the question--what more could they have done?

For me, eight years has slipped by so fast it hardly seems real. I imagine I'll look back after my 25-30 years of educational service and have many happy memories of my professional career. I can't let those who give up, are worn down or run out dictate my choices. I intend to stay.

Getting Ready to Start . . .

I love that feeling when things are getting ready to start. School will be starting in a mere two weeks, but my duties start next week with a pre-camp for our incoming ninth graders. I've been thinking about school all summer and collecting useful ideas, articles, etc as I do every summer. Just lately I've been working on lesson planning and organizing for the upcoming school year because when they (adminstration) say they'll give you time to plan, what they really mean is they'll give you time for more meetings.

Nevertheless, the sense of anticipation that I have is a nervous, excited, stomach-blender sort of feeling that makes me happy to be alive. Having a purpose is why the relaxed (?) days of summer are so sweet. It's that light to the dark, salty to the sweet--the career balances out everything else. As much as I love being with my kids and being able to read or watch a movie or go shopping whenever I want, I also love the work. Even my name means "hard worker," so I guess it was pre-ordained that I enjoy working.

My classroom is sitting empty (and dusty, no doubt) and all my stuff is in storage in the teacher's work room, just waiting for me to come and get it. I'm full of nervous energy, waiting for it to start, wanting to GO!!! But still enjoying the summer too. I have plenty of projects to do at home, but then I always do. Soon it will be time, but for now I need to sit back, breathe and enjoy the time I have with my kids and husband.

Boundary Street, 1980s

Home smells like cinnamon, dust and fresh-cut grass.

Maybe a little sweat.

Every day there’s something to do so that the house

Shines like a good Sunday school student.

Daddy preaches, teaches, talks and smiles

Momma cleans and teaches, talks and preaches,

Buries her dreams in the dirt of the garden.

We gather in church basements, casseroles

and old lady smells with their blue hair

and their crinkled eyes

and I don’t know any of their names but they all know mine.

Boundary Street because it marked the end of the town as it was

Cornfield on one side, city on the other,

Which made us a little bit country

A little bit rock and roll.

Or really just in between both, but not enough of either.

At 10pm on a Saturday night there is no sound but snoring

Then the gentle slide of a window as my sister sneaks out

To meet someone on the dusty path between city and country

So they can go and be one thing

Or the other.

We don’t use slang in our house,

we speak as the scholars my parents want us to be,

We children daring to use “darn” and “jeez” in silent cursing

That will be punished with nothing.

We fear another load of zucchini

miraculously appearing in the trunk of our car

Because there aren’t enough recipes in the world to use it all up.

But it is a sign of the love church folk have for their pastor

And sometimes the only gift they can give.

We hope that when Daddy goes on reserve (cause he’s Navy too)

We’ll get to go out to eat at a fancy restaurant

Like A & W

Where you can order from a telephone right at your booth

And when dad comes back, he’ll have tiny treats!

Little bottles of soap and shampoo and tiny slivers of soap

wrapped like presents,

which we three kids will fight over

and use to the last drop, then recycle the bottles for

play.

My parents, who let us know that

Living on the Boundary

Was neither good nor bad,

It just was

A state of being that existed,

Like lines drawn in the sand,

Like words written on the garage in spray paint

That my brother had to scrub

With harsh soap and a brush

Until the doors were white

And sweat dripped into his eyes.