Sleepless in the Southern Hemisphere

I am incredibly close to both of my grandmothers. I extend endless gratitude and love to both of them for countless conversations on love, life, food, and Dear Caroline columns. They have taught me to cook, knit, appreciate art fairs and wine and ice cream (mmmm, didn't need much help there). I strive to be like both of them in dozens of ways. One thing I inherited from them, though, that isn't always pleasant, is sleeplessness. I got two great nights of sleep this week, but I hit a road block tonight. Bummer, dude. My room is warm, my bed is cozy, but I am tossing and turning. School's on my mind.

Fall is one of my favorite times of year. While the spring, seasonally, symbolizes a new beginning, being a teacher, autumn has always been when I feel freshest. My energy and excitement for a new school year has been rejuvenated over the summer, and I generally begin school in September feeling I have acquired new insights after a summer of reflection. The beginning to this school year has been tougher than the last several. It is no real surprise given most everything about my world changed. I'm the new girl again, to the administrators, to the other teachers, and to my students. No reputation precedes me. No norms or routines were already in place when September 4th arrived.

The students at Americano are some of the friendliest I have taught. Muy amables we say in Spanish. They are also some of the most social. I thought having 12-16 students in a class would be a breeze; I sheepishly admit it still feels pretty tough...and when I have 28 students for a new research class I was gifted, uffff da. I am imagining the other teachers out there, and my peers at Jefferson, a bit astonished as I admit this. Most teachers would give their right foot for these numbers. I imagined these class sizes to feel like a gift from the Heavens.

So I'm struggling. My students are telling me I need to relax more. Some are also keen on wanting to tell me how to put together lessons. Others are expressing their appreciation for feeling challenged. I'm seeking a balance. It's taking time. Every so often I go through periods of questioning my career choice. Can I do this for several more decades? Maybe I'm just not cut out for this? How am I going to keep my passion? Each time I've been here, I am eventually buoyed by something, whether it is one of those rare magical moments you have with your students where the angels practically sing as each student is keyed in to the discussion and new depths are reached, or I am finally able to make a connection with a student with whom I am struggling to connect. Eventually I come back to reside in the belief that teaching is not my career, it is my vocation. Right now, I'm just not feeling that. Kind of like I imagine some days one doesn't feel like parenting. Or feel like being married. So I'm reminding myself that anything worth anything is hard work. And I'm picking up books from the library entitled When Teaching Gets Tough and Teaching Class Clowns (And What They Can Teach Us). As I'm reading Allen Mendler's introduction to the former, I'm nodding my head as he asks, "Do you often feel like a battered boxer, struggling to survive..." and "Have you gotten to a point where you are fed up and think about quitting?" Mendler, dude, you got my number. So I keep reading, and Al reminds me that "Nobody in the midst of stress wants to think about how there are still six months left to the school year or 25 years to go until retirement..." so he advices "Live each day as if there is no tomorrow" and "Understand that change is a roller-coaster ride." While a bit cliche, I find some comfort in his words. I'm intense. I have high expectations. I also know I have to regularly remind myself that change, in myself and my students, takes time. Even when we move forward, there are days we fall back.

I've always believed I have an abundance to learn from my students. In the midst of my angst right now, I also know by the end of the year....or even the end of this month, they will have taught me about culture, about myself, about being a better teacher, about teenagers. Some of my anxiety stems from the fear that I won't teach them as much as they teach me, actually. I don't want to be good enough. I want to really support them. I suppose I have some sense of failure right now, but I'm trying to be compassionate towards myself because I think that comes before the ability to be compassionate towards others, and compassion, an abundance of it, is needed in the classroom every day.

So, cookies. I think next week we begin with cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. My first attempt at baking at this altitude looks a bit flat, but they are still altogether tasty galletas. I'm hoping that the chocolate and butter and sugar will lead my students to forgive me the poor aesthetics. And I'm not trying to bribe them, but I think some peace agreements are needed, and I don't think I can bring, like, peyote to school. I don't have any anyways.

My inspiration comes from two old dead white guys tonight (sounds kind of like the American cannon, eh?):

“[Kids] don't remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are,” comes the wisdom from Jim Henson.

William Arthur Ward argues that “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” 

I'm working on it, mis estudiantes.