When the teacher gets taught.

Last year I had a scary thing happen in my classroom.  It was not a fight. It was not a medical emergency. It was not a student that found my authority benign.

In the midst of another lesson and practice at analyzing a literary passage, I was passionately probing my students to go further. I had asked the most important question, “Why?!” for at least the tenth time.  I was pointing out symbolism and metaphor and asking “So, what? Why does it MATTTERRRR?”  with a maniacal grin on my face. 

If you are an English teacher, you KNOW the face and grin that I refer to. It's when we're in our element; in those discussions where the "light bulb" moments tend to happen, where "teachable" moments occur, those instances where students don't realize it at the time, but they'll return two, ten, maybe twenty years from now and tell you the EXACT second when. They. Finally. Understood.

I have found that my passion can be contagious. If only for a few. My students get a glimpse into a deeply rooted belief that it is all about something bigger. Story is what holds humanity together. The stories we read matter, and the stories we write with our lives matter even more.

But as I was oozing enthusiasm as only crazy English teachers can, I heard a whisper:

“It doesn’t.”

The voice seemed so loud I almost thought a student actually said it. But they didn’t. I scanned the room for hints of dissent, but in that moment every student was present; engaged and trying to break the code that only I seemed to understand.

I kept going, calling on every student brave enough to take a stab at the interpretation. But with every hand I called on the voice became louder.

“This does not matter.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“How is this helping them?”

“Seriously, what are you doing with your life?”

It came from within. This voice I could not name was accusing me of wasting my life. I pushed through the day, believing that it was just that, a bad day. However, as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months this voice haunted me nearly everyday.  I was rounding into the second semester at a new school, with the most supportive administration I had ever had, and quite honestly some of the loveliest children I had ever met, and I hit a wall.

Let me pause and even backtrack a bit and say that I do not think this was a divine voice (aka the voice of God) speaking to me in the middle of our reading of The Glass Castle and questioning whether or not my vocation was making a difference in the life of my students. 

As a daughter of a public educator, I've lived my entire life believing in the fundamental power blocks that make up the system. I believe that every child deserves a healthy system that works amazingly well for them, that serves them fully and well, and this includes well educated, enthusiastic teachers that love their jobs and their subject matter and that strive to bring their 'A' game to the classroom every single day. 

I knew (still know) that my job was not only important, but crucial to my students. But there was something new brewing, and it was also crucial and something that I knew I would be wise to not ignore. 

Long story short, a miraculous thing began to take place in my 5th period class, a class of self-proclaimed "mis-fit" seniors. When I took myself out of the picture and let it become a student-led class (within reason) something beautiful began to happen, and for the first time in my teaching career I was able to partake in a God-thing so healing and so nurturing that I was as changed as those 12 students that sat in a circle that they themselves established in our room. On more than one occasion, the bell would ring and no one would budge. The air amongst us was truly that sacred. We were afraid to move, afraid to disturb or hurry what was happening amongst us. 

The day I said good-bye to those 12 was one of the hardest - and one of the most exhilarating - of my career to date. Hard because the human side of me was going to miss them something fierce. Exhilarating because I knew they were truly, TRULY amazing human beings that were going to thrive and flourish and one day make a difference on the world around them. 

At the end of each day. At the end of each year. At the end of each career...isn't that what teaching is all about?