The tale of an overworked, disillusioned teacher and a shocking act of conscientiousness from an anonymous teen that revitalized her commitment to the classroom.
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Every day, something falls off my walls. The first slider was a Charles Russell print depicting a peaceful, languid group of Native Americans together surveying that signature purpled West that Russell perfected. The next day, one of my Ansel Adams toppled, a cut-out calendar sheet of his inimitable black-and-white nature. After a careful rehang, the following week took down Remington, his ex-Civil War cowboy posse askewed forlornly between the computer and its holding cart.
My classroom art wall is in collective mutiny.
And then, halfway through 2nd period today, I see that Rockwell’s “Freedom from Want” is resting, resigned on the carpet below its proper place. What the bleep, 3M?! How could a company so renowned for sound innovation produce wall hangers this shoddy?
But anyway, it was too late. Surely some students had already noted the obvious departure from symmetry over in that corner, and doubtless been impressed that their teacher must not care if her room sat in so much disarray. And, by deduction, must somehow feel similarly towards her students… an attitude of carelessness.
If there’s one thing I’ve become adept at whilst getting older, it’s been a willingness to admit the truth, at least to myself.
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They, if in fact they did follow that thought train, would be wrong. It could be necessary deja vu, though I doubt it. If there’s one thing I’ve become adept at whilst getting older, it’s been a willingness to admit the truth, at least to myself. And so the probability I’m employing unconsciously-forced forgetting of previous first semesters is minuscule indeed. And so I declare: I’m exhausted.
I’m spent! It’s true, what can I say? Clicker in hand, I’ve been circling the classroom incessantly, demanding sleeping heads to sit up and take notes, shushing, interceding with the disenchanted that they must take notes, discuss, read – no chance to redo this! First grades are final on class work! This is your life, you must take heed and learn, learn now!
Today, no exception. Despite teaching 8th period for the first time in four years, I’m faking energy like a pro and refusing mediocrity. This would be with the most chatty and unfocused of all my classes, the coalition with an attitude surplus. I won’t go into detail, but one particular interaction pushed me to that near-tears place I’ve managed to avoid at work for nearly seven years now.
This would be with the most chatty and unfocused of all my classes, the coalition with an attitude surplus.
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It was in that moment, embarrassed and at a loss of how to proceed, that I felt for the first time a desire to quit… not actually, not walk out, tossing my two-weeks notice behind like the afterthought it would be. But just quit trying with this particular bunch. Assign silent reading, worksheets, essays and that’s it. What’s the point of trying tirelessly to teach, showing film trailers and funny photos to demonstrate vocabulary, stopping at each small group to coax out the questions they’re too lazy, disinterested or shy to ask on their own, when you’ve never seen a class look so bored?
I wish some of my teachers had tried to make class that accessible. Sheesh.
And as much as I wish it had been right then, for the sake of serendipity and storytelling, it wasn’t. It wasn’t until after the class left that I looked across the room and saw that someone else – some student of mine – had rehung the Rockwell for me. Rather shocking, no tears came forth. Instead, a smile – true and immediate – appeared. I realized it was the first unforced smile of the day; and I felt renewed, heartily rejuvenated (you’ll forgive the adverb, I hope. We’re reading Hawthorne, and with all the Goodmans and verilys, something was bound to slip out).
So in this season of gratitude, I offer my thanksgiving for that secret move of graciousness. A small act that in no small way renewed this teacher’s sense of purpose, determination, and fidelity to neat art walls and excellent instruction.
*This story was written in 2012, during my first year teaching 10th and 11th grade Language Arts. I remain grateful for that secret act of kindness, and hope this post somehow reaches said student to let him/her know what a big change that small bit of help really meant.
Photo: Flickr/Michael