A Teacher's Manifesto

These days, media coverage of any issue relating to public education seems to be negative. News outlets are sure to cover budget cuts, test scores, inappropriate teacher behavior, and the occasional closing due to weather. News outlets seem less interested in the people behind these stories. What does it look like, in the classroom, when budgets are cut? What are teachers doing everyday to raise test scores? What drove that teacher to make those inappropriate comments in a classroom full of students? If the media covered this side of the story then who would we use to scapegoat our educational downfalls? Not politicians, American apathy seems to dictate that aren’t even worth it. Certainly not parents, no one wants a string of “you don’t know how hard I work” emails from angry mothers. The kids themselves? Come on, “they’re just kids!”

Thus I’d like to offer some thoughts. An inside look, if you will, at the job – day in and day out.

My day starts around 7:25 am. I am required, contractually, to be to school by 7:30 am. Many of my co-workers arrive at 7:00, many more are there even earlier than that. School starts at 7:45, but students show up to my room even while I’m unlocking the door. I need to log in to my computer, check emails, maybe run a last minute copy or two, but the early arrivals want to talk. They want to know how my weekend was. They want to tell me about theirs. They want to know “did we have any homework?” and “What are we doing today?”, even though I haven’t even had time to write the agenda on the board. I make quick chit chat and try to politely separate so that I can run to the lounge and put my lunch in the fridge. I must part with these students gently because one never knows which student is struggling with a divorce at home, a fight with a friend, or just a general stressful week and teachers now-a-days are required to be constantly tuned in to their students’ emotions.

On the way to the lounge I may chat with a co-worker, if she happens to be going the same way. I may be stopped by other students wanting to know, “Did we have any homework?” and “What are we doing in class today?” I’m walking as fast as I can because the lounge is the other side of the school from where my room is located. In the lounge I might decide to make a last minute copy. I’ll probably find that someone else is using the machine, or that someone else has set the machine to make 85 copies of a 5 page packet, or that the machine is out of service today. If I have to go to the “other” copy machine, it requires an even further walk, but let’s just imagine everything goes smoothly today.

I’m back in the classroom and within one 70-minute lesson I am expected to include the following: an opening activity that piques interest, a variety of opportunities to respond (will students raise their hands, write in journals, discuss with a partner?), plans that meet my school’s power standards, which we just created, which will soon be replaced with something else. I am also to design lesson plans that are creative, but rigorous. I am to engage the students, but keep the tomfoolery to a minimum. At any given moment my concentration may be broken by a student who wants to know “Are we going to have any homework tonight?” or “What are we doing next?” or “Do you know what time the snowcoming dance starts?” I must answer these question quickly, then re-orient 30 minds back to the task at hand. I am to explain my objectives for the day and for each unit of study. I am to include some sort of exit activity – lest the students be left in suspense when the bell rings.

I will hear my name about 50 times in one hour. I will memorize roughly 150 student names each trimester. I will remember which students are special ed and what special accommodations they need. I will remember which student is having “a rough time at home and may need some extra support” as my email from the guidance office informed me. I will take only 20 minutes for lunch and sometimes I will eat my lunch on the fly because I am helping to stifle a “food fight threat” in the cafeteria or I am helping the freshman class sell t-shirts as a class fundraiser.

In between classes, I have five minutes. Five minutes to get the warm-up activity ready for the next hour. Five minutes to notice that my desks are out of line and I’d like to straighten them. Five minutes to run to the bathroom, if necessary.

I know that I will make special exceptions for unusually immature behavior on the following days: any day before the beginning of a break, the first day back from any break, any day of an event (homecoming, snowcoming), any day when something was out of the ordinary: a fire drill, a two hour delay, a reverse schedule due to testing, a pep assembly. Some days I won’t even be able to explain the unusual behavior… a full moon maybe?

I will teach kids how to be adults. I will explain why “that joke was racist.” I will explain the raunchy, sexual references in every Shakespearean text we read. I will remind kids, over and over again, to keep their hands and feet to themselves. I will limit bathroom passes because, let’s face it, they don’t really have to go. I will write passes to other classes, I will receive passes from other classes. I will take attendance, I will alter attendance when kids come in late, I will keep track of tardies and write detentions when students have reached their max. I will explain why 8 absences in three weeks is really unacceptable. I will explain, again and again, why not to use “gay” as a synonym for stupid. I will answer the question, “Why can’t we leave campus for lunch?” over and over again. I will repeat the directions three times, then force a smile when someone raises their hand and asks, “What are we doing?”

But then, dear student, I will be there when you get that quiz back with an ‘A’ at the top. I will see the pride radiate from your being because you actually studied for once. I will be there when you finally decide to stay after school and get help on a paper assignment. I will tell you if you stink like B.O. and I will reassure you that it “happens to the best of us” when you’re embarrassed. I will sneak you a tampon, if you need one. I will notice when you’re just not yourself and ask you what’s wrong. I will smile when, finally, you remembered to raise your hand. I will beam when you tell me “You’re cool,” even though I know you’re just being nice. I will watch you shine at sporting events and band concerts and may even get teary-eyed from time to time. I will delay the start of class so that you can tell us about the new puppy you got over the weekend. I will listen to how you broke your arm, twice. I will notice when something is really wrong. I will find you help when you need it. I will advocate for you even if other adults are not listening. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. I will let you re-write, re-take, re-do assignments until you feel proud of the work you’ve done. I’ll call home and I’ll couch the bad news in statements of positivity. When I can’t get through to you, I’ll talk to colleagues, email home, or read a book about teaching. I will let you use my cell phone when your ride is late picking you up and I promise to embarrass myself during each spirit week and at every pep assembly. I will even watch MTV just so I know what you’re talking about in class and I will listen to you. I will try and learn as much from you as I hope you learn from me.

Then my day will end around 4:30, but many of my co-workers will be there much longer. Many of my co-workers are coaches, tutors, and drivers training instructors. Some nights I work on homework for my graduate class as I am required to earn a master’s degree within a set amount of years. Most nights I grade papers for an hour or more. Most nights I have reading to do in order to keep up with the student’s reading assignments. Some weekends I chaperone dances. Some days I stay late after school for staff meetings or curriculum development.

Every day I will leave exhausted. Many nights I will lay awake in bed worrying about kids. Sometimes I will check my work email from home and respond to parent concerns at 10:00 pm.

Some nights I will sit angrily through a news story that presents a complete inaccuracy about what my job entails and what I care about.

But every day I feel like a warrior. I have the opportunity to watch your kids grow, question, laugh, cry, struggle, and ultimately triumph. And I wouldn’t trade this job for any other in the world.