Present

Years ago, shortly after getting married and moving into our new home together and even more significantly, after I finally completed two grueling years of an accelerated graduate program while teaching full-time and raising a teenager, my husband looked at me and quite astutely remarked, “You’re back.” I was standing in the kitchen baking bread and making soup on a Sunday afternoon and his two-word declaration hit me hard in the weight of its truth. I was. I was, very much “back.” I was back to the me that enjoyed leisurely baking. The me that had time to spare on a Sunday afternoon. The me who wasn’t stressed about getting four writing assignments and six readings done all while trying to write meaningful lesson plans on little to no energy. Graduate school had sucked the ever-living life out of me. Through complications with a mentor, the process had taken twice as long and cost twice as much, leaving me more than twice as frustrated and exhausted. But with it all behind me, I had resumed my passions and existed more fully in the present than I had in a long while. I was back.

Three years ago I taught only math, with desks six feet apart and kids isolated in small groups wearing masks all day. Two years ago cancer entered my household preoccupying my time and mental capacity and last year I lost my beloved to the disease, leaving my traumatized heart and brain to barely function while operating in survival mode. But now, just this week, standing there talking and laughing with my students I felt present in ways that have eluded me since before the pandemic.

The first week of school is admittedly not my favorite. I love the way a classroom runs when the students all know and embrace the routines. I love the learning that happens when we are all familiar with each other and open with our vulnerabilities. I enjoy growing with students and sharing our days together in ways that create a fun but meaningful learning environment. The first week is far from all of those things. It’s full of nervous energy and schedules that get way off track. It’s a complicated mix of excitement and anxiety, as students try to navigate new relationships and a new classroom vibe and as we all try to remember how to function as a group of people in a classroom together.

But it was there, during that chaotic, anxious first week, in a moment when we had spent way too long (way too long!) putting supplies where they belong and I had repeated myself and referred to the directions on the board more times than seemed reasonable, when a student was still not doing what he should have been that I first realized just how different I am this year. The feeling was so overwhelming it stopped me right where I was and demanded I notice the change. I was calm. I was patient. I was funny, in fact. While I was frustrated with all we wouldn’t get done in my lesson plan for the day, I stayed fluid and rolled with it and the shift didn’t make me tense or edgy. I was different. Or, more accurately, I felt like I was the me before the pandemic. Before cancer. Before I lost my husband. Back when building relationships with my students and teaching was all I had on my mind while I was in my classroom. Back when my personal life was steady and consistent. Back when I had the energy and mental capacity to deal with ten-year olds with the patience and compassion they require.

Teaching requires more out of you than can be well articulated. There are many things about last year and the year before that, that I cannot even recall. I might have physically existed in my classroom and with my students but I was not capable of anything more than merely existing. My co-teacher picked up more slack than I even know, and my students unknowingly got less than they deserved from their teacher.

But now, I am back. I feel fully present. I have come through trauma on many levels and I am returning to what was in me all along. Even more, I am standing in my classroom now with a whole new appreciation for what it means to suffer grief and trauma. I am reminded that my students are going through much the same. Their baggage, big or small, may prevent them from being fully present every day. Their patience may be short, their ability to focus and be funny and learn may be absent due to reasons I may or may not be privy to. But I can stand here now, bringing my own experiences to my classroom, allowing my tragedies and traumas to make me a better educator, a better human being.

So here’s to a year with students where I am as fully present as ever. Here’s to being back.