I had a dream last last night that I was back in the classroom with a full class. I was consoling a student who was crying because one of his friends switched classrooms and he felt abandoned and another student was presenting a project in a very loud sing-songy way while their homeroom teacher (shout-out Ms. Cowan! Lol) was watching from the doorway because I'd lost track of time and we hadn't cleaned up yet and it was absolutely chaotic. And yet after calming down the crying student, I stood up, looked around the room and said out loud “yeah, this is where I’m supposed to be.” And there was this sense of peace that came over me and I felt at home and at ease amid the mayhem.
Then I woke up. And I woke up to a world in which I won’t be going back to my classroom this year. At least not until the end of May when I have to pack everything up into boxes. All the crayons that are still sitting in their table tubs and the paint containers on the back sink that haven’t been used in months and all the sweet notes and art from students hanging on my teacher bulletin board. When I return there won’t be students in there making messes or kids passing by my door in the hall peering in through the window at me. It’ll be just me. Cleaning up a room that didn’t see nearly enough art projects this year. And the thought of all the drawers I have to clean out that are full of art (a lot of which are unfinished pieces) that won’t find their way back into the hands of their creators breaks my heart.
I woke up after this dream feeling such a sense of peace, despite our current reality. It's a sense of understanding that even though I’m not where I feel like I’m supposed to be right now, none of us teachers are, we’re still teachers. Just because we don’t have the comfort of our classrooms and the flow of normal routine doesn't mean we aren't doing our jobs. In fact, I would argue that a lot of teachers right now are doing their jobs above and beyond the definition of what a teacher is. But then again, we always have haven't we? We don't just teach math, and art, and health, and reading, and music, and science (though all of those things are important). We teach life skills. We teach kindness. We teach respect. We teach love. And we will continue to do that even in difficult times, from far away, over video and microphone, and email. We will always go above and beyond because that's who we are. Just because the setting has changed, doesn't mean the mission has.
I wonder now if I will ever take for granted getting to deal with the disorder and madness of a classroom setting again. I probably will. I'm only human and teaching is hard. But I do feel like maybe I won't be quite so quick to complain again. That even when I do have a student talking back to me or a disastrously painful clean-up session or a kindergartner who refuses to stop crying, maybe in the back of my head I'll remember what it felt like not to have those things. I'll remember what it felt like not being able to pull a student aside and have a one-on-one conversation with them and watch their walls slowly crumble. I'll remember that while cleaning up messes as one class leaves and the other enters seconds later, that while they may not have gotten the cleaning part down perfectly, they made that mess while creating the most amazing pieces of art right before my eyes. As I'm hugging the little kindergartner who won't stop crying I'll remember what it felt like to be miles away from my kids, unable to wrap my arms around them or do anything tangable to ease their confusion and hurt and discomfort.
We teachers are learning and growing so much in this painful season. It hurts and it's stressful and anxiety-inducing, but it's also putting things into perspective for me. I knew I loved my students, more than I ever thought I could. But now I also know what it feels like to have them suddenly ripped from my grasp along with the option of hugging them, and receiving notes from them, and getting to put my hands on their paper, guide their hands through a drawing, get their paint all over me, and on and on and on. I could write an entire post solely about the things I miss about in-classroom teaching. But that's for another day, maybe a day in which I want to indulge my sadness.
Today I'm not sad. Not too sad anyway. Today I am at peace. Today I am determined. I am determined to appreciate what contact I do have with my students right now, even if it is digitally, to remind myself that it won't always be like this, and to cement the realization that no matter the setting, I am a teacher. A teacher who once back in her classroom will always try to remember the days when she missed those four walls so desperately she cried. Today I am a teacher who will pray ceaselessly for my students and coworkers and be thankful that I get to have a career I love so much that it brings tears to my eyes. Not everyone is so lucky.
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