During my time teaching, I bore witness to many things that crackled with beauty and also a sense of burning.
One of my students constantly engaged in fights with children and adults. I felt so frustrated with her that I had no idea what to say to her most of the time. On the last day before winter vacation, her older brother asked me to walk her home when she had stayed at school too late. As we walked to her aunt's apartment, we chatted about our families and even laughed. Knocking on the door, arriving, warmth and light spilling out from the doorway as she and her aunt thanked me for accompanying her home.
I helped to organize a holiday party with my students, hosted at one of their homes, full of laughter, warmth, and genuine connection between a diverse group of people. Later, the student who had hosted the party was expelled from our program, and the last thing I heard from him was his mother, cursing my existence and then a dialtone.
I had a student who spent the better part of a year trying to get kicked out of my class with misbehavior. On the last day of the school year, she asked to borrow my laptop and wrote me a letter, thanking me for believing in her and urging me to never give up on kids like her.
I held strong feelings of judgment toward students, colleagues, administrators, parents, elected officials, and myself. These judgments became so heavy at times that I was unable to be optimistic about almost anything.
I taught a student who spent most of 8th grade behind a wall of stony-faced silence, appearing to be trying to keep out all adults in her life. Four years later, she asked me to revise her college essays, and told me that I was the one who inspired her to become a reader.
I introduced Othello to my students and saw one of the lowest readers in the class fall in love with the text and its language. I heard from a teacher at his high school that he ended up transferring because the work load was too much.
I took one of my most challenging classes outside to create a shelter from natural materials after we had read Hatchet. They worked together, created a real shelter, and debriefed the experience afterward, reflecting on their roles as individuals and parts of a team. They stood together on camera, alive with the glow of having just met a unique challenge.
I held annual original poetry readings for my students. I can still hear the sound of students chanting each others' names, insisting that everyone present should challenge themselves to stand up and recite their poetry.
Experiences like these made me feel alive in a way nothing else can. But there was a price to this constant rollercoaster. In the fall of 2013, I realized I was burning (click here to continue).
One of my students constantly engaged in fights with children and adults. I felt so frustrated with her that I had no idea what to say to her most of the time. On the last day before winter vacation, her older brother asked me to walk her home when she had stayed at school too late. As we walked to her aunt's apartment, we chatted about our families and even laughed. Knocking on the door, arriving, warmth and light spilling out from the doorway as she and her aunt thanked me for accompanying her home.
I helped to organize a holiday party with my students, hosted at one of their homes, full of laughter, warmth, and genuine connection between a diverse group of people. Later, the student who had hosted the party was expelled from our program, and the last thing I heard from him was his mother, cursing my existence and then a dialtone.
I had a student who spent the better part of a year trying to get kicked out of my class with misbehavior. On the last day of the school year, she asked to borrow my laptop and wrote me a letter, thanking me for believing in her and urging me to never give up on kids like her.
I held strong feelings of judgment toward students, colleagues, administrators, parents, elected officials, and myself. These judgments became so heavy at times that I was unable to be optimistic about almost anything.
I taught a student who spent most of 8th grade behind a wall of stony-faced silence, appearing to be trying to keep out all adults in her life. Four years later, she asked me to revise her college essays, and told me that I was the one who inspired her to become a reader.
I introduced Othello to my students and saw one of the lowest readers in the class fall in love with the text and its language. I heard from a teacher at his high school that he ended up transferring because the work load was too much.
I took one of my most challenging classes outside to create a shelter from natural materials after we had read Hatchet. They worked together, created a real shelter, and debriefed the experience afterward, reflecting on their roles as individuals and parts of a team. They stood together on camera, alive with the glow of having just met a unique challenge.
I held annual original poetry readings for my students. I can still hear the sound of students chanting each others' names, insisting that everyone present should challenge themselves to stand up and recite their poetry.
Experiences like these made me feel alive in a way nothing else can. But there was a price to this constant rollercoaster. In the fall of 2013, I realized I was burning (click here to continue).