I’ve been away from school since Thanksgiving. It was then we knew our battle against cancer was in its final rounds and by mid December, my beloved lost the fight and I lost my beloved. Other than one quick visit to see the students right before Winter Break and going in to write up lesson plans in two week increments, I haven’t been back to school. Grief is unique to everyone and every situation, and for some, diving back into the routine of work, or being surrounded by people might help the healing process. For me, however, the very thought of doing either has been terrifying. When I go in to write up plans I feel numb, disconnected, lost. It takes me hours to do the simplest things and I struggle to put together anything of any true significance.
Planning out lessons is something I normally love to do. I spend my summers, even, thinking about ways to improve my writing instruction, creating plans and researching mentor texts. I think about ways to connect learning to life and how to get students to be more intrinsically motivated to do their best work. My beloved called it “the itch” when, in early July, I would start reaching for my phone in the middle of the night to type up a note to myself. And I continued to do it all year long. Normally.
This “itch” is the reason I haven’t walked away from the profession. For all the meetings that feel unnecessary; all the angry parents who assume ill-intent; for all the “new and improved” methods we are continually trying to understand, learn and implement; for all the ways I feel like our system is broken and even detrimental at times, there is still this pilot light of passion that keeps me hanging on. This joy that comes from the spark of an idea that develops itself into an energy that manifests itself through an experience in my classroom. I’m humble enough to know that my lessons might not always hit the mark they intend, but I am hopeful that even if it needs tweaking, the lesson might at least spark an enthusiasm for learning and a contagion for trying.
But since my beloved’s diagnosis less than a year ago, that itch has taken a far backseat. I didn’t spend one moment of my summer thinking about plans. I didn’t write a single note in my phone about a book to use or a phrase to try. I have gone to school all spring and fall and taught the standards and in recent months, I have written plans for someone else to teach them with heavy reliance on a curriculum publisher to make the material engaging. Years ago, my husband and I met with a professional who’s wife was a teacher and in conversation this man said, “I tell my wife all the time, if the world and her administration is going to treat them like C+ professionals, then she should be a C+ teacher.” Ever since, my husband would tongue-in-cheek suggest that I aspire to be a C+ teacher, knowing full well it wasn’t in my DNA to not pour every ounce of myself into my students. But for the last year, I’ve been just that. It was out of necessity for my own well being, but I have been just that.
Despite that being true, it recently became so obvious to me that I had really lost something, that this spark wasn’t just in the backseat, it seemed to be gone. It was a change that I suspect was noticed by my principal as well, as his gentle questions about my return to work became a bit more insistent. But my anxieties about returning have been so significant they are the weekly topic at therapy. It isn’t just a “return to normalcy” that I fear betrays my husband; it isn’t just the difficulty of being immersed in a group of people for whom life didn’t change at all when there is not a single aspect of mine that remained the same; it isn’t just the neediness of ten year olds and the emotional demands of the job; it isn’t just the strength required to complete the mundane tasks that accompany any job when my give-a-damns are shattered. My anxiety is compounded by my fear that I’m not ever going to be that passionate teacher again. That what I’ve lost, I’ve lost permanently.
But then, last night, it happened. I was watching Iron Man- a movie I’ve seen several times, but a favorite of my husbands and a comfort in its familiarity and memory. I was about an hour in to the movie when the thought struck me, much as the blast of energy from Iron Man’s palm when he blasts his enemies or rockets into space. Look at how he is improving his original model, I thought. How many times does he improve on the Iron Man suit in just this movie alone? What a great visual reminder to students of the importance of revision! By the end of the movie, I had jotted eight notes into my phone, including time stamps to scenes in the movie that I wanted to later capture and put together to show this point exactly.
And there it was. The spark. The thought of how to put this into a series of mini writing lessons has bounced around in my head all night and today I woke with a new purpose and intention.
Even more than feeling excited about the idea or feeling energized about planning, however, even more than that, I felt relief. While I am still not certain that the classroom is where I want to stay for my remaining years in the profession, I know that this passion of mine requires a connection to the classroom. Lessons cannot be designed in a vacuum, and so my ties to the classroom will forever remain strong, even if it’s not where I may eventually spend all my hours. I am not even sure of how I could best use these ideas and passions of mine without being a full-time classroom teacher, but I know this moment helped me realize once again what I love about what I do. And it gives me hope that when I do return, I will once again feel that passion within me.
Through the visual aid of Iron Man and the many iterations of his suit, I hope to show to my students how to get excited about revision and improvement in all their work efforts. I hope to make them not only see the value but to desire the improvements enough to put in the effort.
As for me, I feel a bit like Tony Stark myself, tweaking and fixing, struggling and improving as I form new iterations of my own professional path. I hope to not only help my students to rise to new heights, but to also let my own talents and passions soar.
Teaching at 3am 