on beyond 57

Teachers can appear one dimensional sometimes.. They show up at school every day, looking for all intents and purposes as if they only ever live to teach. Or to professionally develop themselves. Or to volunteer for extracurricular activities. They are equipped for the day, badge snd key card hanging, their classroom door keys jangling.. If it is Friday, the school t-shirt and a pair of jeans will be their uniform. They are ready. 

 Our other dimensions hide back in the shadows of our multi-use teacher backpacks. Our many human roles slither in and out of consciousness and often stand directly in front of us and trip us as we try to work.  Most often, we have to either quickly crowd them into the closet  or pencil them in for later in the day. We simply do not have the  time to deal.

Summer break, on the other hand, is like a flipping family reunion of  parts deferred all year long. The sister, spouse, mother, friend and middle aged human that I carry with me everywhere comes to stay. Our human failures hide behind the super-teacher facade as we fix our face, pulling into the parking lot during the school year. . On vacation, we are able to pause that routine for a few weeks. Our faces relax and our thoughts have thoughts of their own.

When I became a teacher at the tender age of 22, I was not the person I am today as the calendar flips and I close out year 57. I had a LOT more energy for one thing. I had ideals and stars in my eyes, some of which frankly blinded me to some stuff I should have noticed about the profession. To quote a popular professional development catch phrase, I had  a “fixed mindset”. I thought there was one way to teach and I had figured it out. I plugged in my hot rollers, laid out my panty hose (It was 1988, remember) and went for it, with varying degrees of success.

 My acting ability came in handy when I was standing in front of 30 high school freshman, expounding on the thematic elements of “12 Angry Men”. They could not have been less interested in the material, or really, in me. I was giving it my all, loaded for bear and if blank stares could kill…well, you would be reading someone else’s writing right now. So I pulled in the actor dimension (Relax, I am not going to list my credits here) and I went wide. I brought in a box of suit jackets and ugly ties, and some fedoras that had seen better days. I selected the least- likely- to -love plays- written- in -the -1950’s and assigned them parts. I handed out scripts for everyone. The “jurors” came up front and I sneaked to the back of the room to watch. Gradually, the play began to take shape, characters found their feet and began to tell the story of a tense jury room and the rest of us witnessed both the personalities that took over, and those that held back. The natural leader came to the forefront, bullied the others a little bit. And scene. The silence before applause is my favorite and this was no exception.

How did I know to invite the actor in to help? Well, for one thing, the text was a play, not a novel.  Tess the Actor knew that costumes give life to words, to characters building a story together. She also knew that the natural inclination of  teenagers who like to be the center of attention would work to her advantage this time. And it did. It was  a delightful and completely rewarding day. And after something like that happens, students will be more inclined to follow along the next time I invite them to. And I will use that advantage to take them deeper into the woods with me.

Of course, the mom dimension is with me daily. The one with a handy tissue or bandaid. The one waiting to hear about what tragedy occured on the playground to render this child incapable, literally, of doing anything academic, possibly forever, but at least for the rest of the day. The supportive hug (pre-Covid, of course) the encouraging words come from the heart of the mother I have been becoming for the past 30 years. That modulated tone of voice  comes from talking multiple kids down off ledges of one kind or another. The invitation to begin again that so many students need to see modeled for them, so they can claim it for themselves. That’s all mom energy. 

My human heart  that carries sorrow or grief mostly stays quiet at school, choosing to sit in the back of the room and keep her own counsel. This dimension of me comes out evenings and weekends when I have more than a few minutes to feel a feeling. It often begins in the car on the way home, as I rant about some idiocy or injustice coming my way from administration or families or students themselves. It works its way out and in some cases, I am fighting back tears, and then I have surrendered and  then I am crying. Probably not because of whatever I started talking about, but because of what is underneath. In the same way that kids hold it together all day and melt down as soon as they get home, so too do teachers. The sadness of the day unlocks our own sadness, whatever it is. 

So summer can often feel like a long ride home in the car at the end of the day. Lots of time to feel things, rant and rave if necessary. Since my birthday (mandatory self reflection time for me) comes in the summer, it often feels like I have a front row seat to this movie. To all the feelings from all the parts of me. Sometimes at the same time. Kind of sounds like a classroom, doesn’t it?  So I should feel right at home.