Might the Fear of Teaching be the Beginning of (Teacherly) Wisdom?

Okay, so I've been thinking a lot about everything I've talked about and thought about so far, and what I've identified as my (perhaps trite and simplistic) understanding of my obstacles to becoming a worthwhile educator is fear.

I had a student this week say some things that made me afraid--not afraid for me, really, but for him, and for the other students in the class who interact with him. And this really drove home for me some of the real challenges I'm going to face as a teacher. But this isn't the extent of it.

Let me go over some of the fears I have, going into teaching:

1.) The fear of inadequacy. I'm sure we all feel this from time to time, whether we're student-teachers or veteran educators. But it's a paralyzing fear, nonetheless. Sometimes, when I'm planning a lesson I'll be presenting in my placement, I'm almost paralyzed with fear. Concerns run through my mind: Is this topic going to be relevant to students? Will it help them meet their educational goals, whatever those might be? Will it help them to become more critical consumers of the world around them? Is it pedagogically sound? Is it internally consistent? Will it be accessible to students--not over their heads, but not too simple for them, either? Will I be able to implement it well? Am I expert enough in the content to be able to field any questions students might have? Can I give directions clearly? Are my estimates of the instructional time for each activity close approximations? Am I going to be running out of time, especially if I have to take time to manage behavior issues? Will I even be effectively prepared to handle behavior issues at all?

2.) The fear of unethical or ideologically questionable motives. I often, for my own sake, try to articulate why I want to be a teacher, what kind of teacher I want to be, and why. And I come up with extensive lists--Because I love reading and writing and, as an adolescent, found them to empower me in a way that, probably, nothing else could have, and I want to share the power and connectedness of the written word with students; Because I'm concerned about social inequities that exist in our society and I want to make our nation's youth aware of them, in an effort to create a critical and responsible generation of citizens; Because I believe that an English classroom should be so much more than what it too often seems to be--a place to learn formulaic rules about language and composition that are often archaic and usually function as tools to keep some people in power and most people marginalized...I want to be the kind of teacher who pushes students, and demands a great deal from them, but who also appreciates their contexts and perspectives; the kind of teacher who wants to work with the "challenging" students, because they're too often marginalized and deserve to have their perspectives heard and understood; the kind of teacher who is passionate about every single skill set or text she teaches, and who wants to share that passion with students.

Of course, whether or not I'm the caliber of person necessary to become this type of educator, and whether or not my preservice year is preparing me for this goes back to the fear of inadequacy. But my fear here is that these motives, these goals, are just the ones I tell myself I have, and, in reality, I fell into teaching some other way and have simply justified it to myself. Perhaps I felt there was little else I was qualified to do with a B. A. in English, since the challenging life of the professional writer is fairly intimidating. Perhaps the idea of having summers off to pursue further education in English was a factor, too. It's so hard for me to tell what considerations came first. And is my desire to work with marginalized students, particularly those in low-SES urban settings a misplaced sense of superiority, like I'm some savior figure that can come in and save these unfortunate students? I struggle with this consideration, in particular, because of another fear.

3. The fear of too-high aspirations--though I don't know if that's really a good way of putting it. Is it right for me to (believe that I) want to teach to marginalized, struggling students? Or does my desire to do this type of work come from a belief that they need extra help, my help? For what? To become upwardly socially mobile? I don't think this is the goal of education, but is it not my students' (present and future) goal? If it is, shouldn't it be my goal? Or would saying something like "you need to learn to read and write well so you can go to college and get good jobs" (which is not what I believe, I don't think, but is perhaps what many students and parents, and certainly several educators and policy-makers might say) just de-value where the students come from? And can I even say that students "come from" a place, or does that generalize in a harmful way, and blind me to students' individual situations? In any case, what it comes down to is, am I aiming to work with "at risk" youth because I think they need my help? If so, isn't that a horrible, condescending thing to think? And won't that attitude, even on a subconscious level, make me a bad teacher? But what's the alternative? Teach students whose social status is more "like mine?" As if that's an option, ethically or just realistically? And how do I uncover prejudices I might have, combat them, and still function as a good educator? Can I even do this (see #1, the fear of inadequacy)

4. The fear of saying the wrong thing(s). This fear is closely related to #3. How do you show that you genuinely care about students, respect them as individuals--many of them as adults, care about their contexts and their perspectives, but still manage their behavior, ask them to do things that they don't necessarily care about or want to do, or that might be useless or even harmful to them? Should I be asking them to do things they don't see the value in? Is it my job to make them see the value in a task? What if they don't buy into my explanation of its importance? How do I create rigorous expectations for my students while still validating their literacies, experiences, and interests? How do I push back on students thoughts and statements without seeming confrontational or authoritative? And maybe the biggest challenge of all: how do I make my students successful students and citizens whilst simultaneously making them totally critical consumers of the world around them? How do I prepare them for PSSA's while still allowing them the space to challenge the test makers and the school administrators and the policy makers? How do I prepare them to enter the work force and negotiate job seeking skills while teaching them to interrogate the validity of corporate rhetoric or media images? If I do only one and neglect the other, I'll be doing my students and society a disservice. That's a lot of pressure, and those stakes seem pretty high to me.

This is just a beginning. I'm also afraid of living in an urban area, of dealing with the low pay and the tons of work that go with being a teacher. If I get a job in an urban school, I'm going, I know, to be terribly afraid every time I walk from the train station to the school, because of the neighborhood it's in. Right or wrong, I know I'll be afraid. And, supposing I get a job teaching high school english in Newark, for instance, and I walk in to a classroom of 25-35 on-level 10th or 11th grade students. I'm going to be afraid. No matter how much I tell myself to be confident, I know I'm going to start out being afraid. How can I manage a classroom like that? Will the students respect me? Will I come across as uppity, or worse? AM I uppity or worse? Can I teach those students effectively? Without being overwhelmed by the difference between their lives and mine--a difference that would be shocking based on the different setting alone? Will I make unfair assumptions? Will I say something really horrible and offensive to a student without realizing it? Will I get mugged on my way to the train station?

These are fears that I wish I didn't have, that I know might be based on a whole slew of factors, ranging from my own ignorance to seriously valid concerns. The hard part is drawing the lines to determine which fears are founded and which are unfounded. But regardless of all that, I think that I sort of came to a conclusion today: what's important isn't whether or not I have these fears--I can't control that. What's important is how I deal with them. Like I said, this might come across as trite and oversimplified, but as long as I acknowledge the fears I have, which I tried to do here, and press on, trying to do what I think it the best I can do in spite of my fears, I think I'm on ethical and responsible ground. And I know I'm going to mess up. Professor X has assured me that all research suggests I'll mess up over and over and over again my first year in particular. And that's REALLY hard to acknowledge, because students don't deserve to be impeded by their novice teachers' mess-ups. But there's no way around it. It's going to happen. All I can do is try to be real with myself and my peers about that, and learn as much as I can, and try as hard as I can. And I have to figure out how to balance different priorities, which will take time.

But anyways, I feel like now that I've named my fears (some of them) I have a little more power over the trajectory of my life and career. And I don't think being afraid makes me a bad teacher (at this point, teacher candidate). On the other hand, I think, to be paralyzed by fear, or to try to avoid certain settings, discussions, or experiences because I'm frightened, would kill me in the proverbial crib. Being an English teacher is risky business, and I'm realizing that, and hopefully learning to deal with that realization.

Write Beside Them

Penny Kittle told me to "write beside them"--my students, that is. And that's something I haven't done, or that I've had a hard time doing, since my life was swallowed up in pedagogy and theory and sales pitches and an empty apartment. But I've been stealing moments and pages, here and there, trying to document my present madness in order to retain my sanity. So I'm not sure if this is what my program director had in mind when she suggested, what seems like an eternity ago but must really have been only 10 weeks, that we might want to keep a blog, a teaching blog, that we could show employers-to-be and peers and could make us a part of a community of professionals. As i said, I don't know if this is what she had in mind, but this is my blog, and I suppose I should lay myself bare if I'm asking my students to do anything of the sort. So here goes.

Today, I was struck by a realization. I've been struggling, really struggling, this semester. It's hard to be bad at something, to be able to talk about what a good teacher is, but not to be one. It might be harder for me than it is for most, because no matter how hard I try to be good at it because I know I should, I'm really bad at handling "constructive criticism." Of course I want to improve, but I don't want anyone but me to figure out how I can. And to hear someone tell me that I need to write better handouts, or communicate more simply and clearly, or to think like an eighth-grader, stings. Really, really hard.

So I've been struggling, trying to make myself wake up in the morning and feel good about what I'm going to do that day, even though I know that between the readings and the reflections and the presentations, I'm spread so thin that, as a novice, I'm just getting ready for a long series of failures that I can analyze with my peers all day and talk about how, some day, we'll be good teachers. That is, one or two of us will, because we've all read, by this point, about the high turn over for beginning teachers. So I wake up every morning in my apartment with no one beside me except for my poor, neglected cat, and I prepare to go out and fail. Over and over and over again. And then to hear people tell me all about my little failures. And it's really, really hard.

But today I realized something that made it a little easier. I was, like any 20th-century-roughly-middle-class-american-girl/woman-in-her-20's, scrolling down my facebook feed for the zillionth time today, and I came across this video, posted under a friend's status--some short poem-- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0snNB1yS3IE . The friend who posted it is a student at Susquehana university, and I think at this moment she's living in London. I don't know her all that well--she's a mutual friend of my fiancé's who I've met a hand full of times--but she loves this spoken-word poet that I love, and she follows TED, a group I've recently started following. And I realized that, even though right now, I'm isolated from the world by this wall of university-education-training, I'm still a part of a community.

Yep. I'm a part of (a) communit(y/ies).

A community of (strong) women (who try to be strong). Women who are (as) self-made (as anyone can be), women who work for a living and care about being (as) strong(er) (as/than) any m(a/e)n in their lives, or any (wo)m(a/e)n in their ways, who (want to) build their lives instead of having them built for them. Women who hear the well-intended but frustratingly anachronistic things their brothers and fathers say--about walking down dark alleys at night, living at home [in their fathers' houses], and letting someone take care of them once in a while--and let it roll off their backs like rainwater.

If Luce Irigaray taught me anything, it was what to call the tool gynecologists use to open things--and that anyone worth writing for won't mind working to read what you wrote. If you're still reading so far, than you must be worth writing for, because I mean so many things when I can say only one. Ol' Luce calls this woman-talk (only she says it in French), but I call it me-talk, because I don't think like (a) (wo)m(a/e)n, I think like myself, like only I can, because only I have taken the steps to get me to where I am so I can see (the things/the way) I see.

(We aren't/I'm not) always strong, though I/we always want to be, and often try to be. In fact, I feel weaker than most a lot of the time. When I go to bed early because I've gotta sleep to silence the thoughts in my head, they usually go something like this: I-have-too-few-friends,-too-few-dollars,-too-few-accomplishments,-and-too-many-pounds-of-fat-on-me,-I'm-so-bad-at-communicating/empathizing-to/with-teenagers-maybe-I'm-not-meant-to-teach-(not-that-I'm-"meant"-to-do-anything-because-who-plans-it-but-me--but-then-what-made-me-"mean"-for-myself-to-become-a-teacher?-In-fact,-how-did-I-end-up-here,-anyways?-Is-my-whole-life/identity-the-result-of-coincidence(s)/convenience(s)?-and-if-so-then-why-does-it-feel-like-(such-a-struggle/a-hole-I-keep-trying-to-climb-out-of-only-to-discover-that-no-matter-how-high/hard-I-climb,-there's-still-more-climbing,-and-harder-climbing,-left-to-do)-But-if-i-don't-teach-English,-what-on-earth-should-i-do?-Being-a-stayathomemom-seems-so-much-easier-why-do-i-insist-on-winning-my-share-of-bread--not-that-i'll-do-that-as-a-teacher-anyways-with-the-job-market/world-economy-what-it/they-is/are-so-if-i-can't-do-it,-and-even-if-i-could-i-couldn't-make-a-living,-anyways,-then-why-am-i-bothering?-Do-i-want-to-be-a-teacher?-i'm-so-lost-in-the-cloud-of-rigor/failure-i'm-in-i-can't-remember-anymore-what-i-want-to-do-vs.-what-i-feel-i-must-do.-Am-i-doing-this-for-(all)-the-wrong-reason(s)?-what-even-is/are-the-right-reason(s)?-Does-it-matter-why-i'm-trying-to-do-it-if-i-can't/won't-do-it,-anyways?-maybe-i'm-just-not-trying-hard-enough!-i-should-work-less-hours-so-i-can-be-fully-devoted-to-my-coursework/placement--i-should-work-more-hours(to-make-up-for-my-inability-to-write-the-number-of-sales-i-need-to-earn-the-commission-i-need-to-support-myself)-so-i-don't-have-to-take-out-more-student-loans,-since-i-probably-won't-be-able-to-get-a-job-that-allows-me-to-pay-them-back,-anyways--i-should-make-more-of-an-effort-to-(make-new-friends/stay-connected-with-old-friends)-because-i'm-a-hypocrite-for-talking-about-a-"communityoflearners"-if-i'm-so-socially-withdrawn/isolated/rejected.--what-am-i-even-contributing-to-society/America/my-students/the-World/the-Universe,-anyways?... And it/they go(es) on.

These thoughts are overwhelming, like clouds of locusts eating up all my energy/motivation/life-force. And some days, I'm totally absent from life, my mind running over these doubts over and over and over again, my body occupying a seat in a classroom, my mouth offering lessons to students, but my mind absent, and my heart being eaten away.

But I'm a part of communit(y/ies) and I know that I can battle these doubts. I've got my strong girls behind me, those that I know and love and those who just inhabit the same space(s)/world that I do. I've also got my fellow academics (readers/writers), with their/our thirst for knowledge and wisdom, a thirst that I/they/we can't ever possibly quench, seeking out more and more, greedily, eating up words and ideas, books and letters and websites and conference talks, historical figures and periods and philosophers and writers and authors/poets, slurping down cup after cup of theory and philosophy and discipline-specific/interdisciplinary thoughts. Always, always, always, thinking, puzzling, analyzing, re-thinking.

And educators, who want to give give give students the words, the knowledge, the wisdom that I/we/they love(d) so much, that help(s/ed) us/them/me so much. I/we want students to read/love Shakespeare--or hate him, as long as they've read him, and can have a well-informed, well-argued hatred. Our/my mouth(s) and mind(s) are full of things we want these kids to notice, think about, interrogate, analyze. And we're/I'm disappointed in (our/my)sel(f/ves), not our/my students, when they fail to notice/think about/interrogate/analyze those things (fully).

Black can mean many things, I think, but it can't mean me. And poor can mean many things, but it (probably/usually) doesn't mean me. Man/male can mean a lot, but not me.

Weak and strong and determined and dejected/defeated and hungry and satisfied and beautiful and ugly and thoughtful and diligent and lazy and stupid and cold and damp and short and stubby and meek-and-mild and severe and hypocritical and (full-of/lacking)-integrity and social and reclusive and gentle and bitchy and frightened and cowardly and brave and uncertain and many other things mean me right now.

I'm trying to take things one step at a time. Poetry and novels and music have been great helps to me in this struggle--which makes me think I'm in the right field, because when I was feeling lowest, I asked my friend to feed me poetry, or I listened to a song that moved me, or I read a couple of pages of a novel I'm (trying to) work(ing) my way through. My peers and professors and students all help and hurt me right now, as good peers/professors/students almost certainly should. But, for now, I feel good, I feel like I'm a part of something good, and that I really belong in it, even if I've still got a ways to go...

It was good to get this all off my chest. In one of my classes, on teaching writing, we do quickwrite assignments from time to time, and one of them was a free write. I wrote about the Salem witch trials, and about death-by-crushing, a method of execution for witches at the trials in which more and more weight is put onto someone's body until they are crushed to death. I wrote about how I felt like, every day, more and more weight was being piled on my chest, like so many stones, and that I was sure any minute my rip cage would splinter and I'd be a goner. That hasn't happened. I'm still here. I'm still (roughly) pretty sane. I'm still moving forward. And I feel like writing is helping me take some of the stones off my chest, and better bear the ones that are stuck there. I know that when all this is done, even if I still have a ways to go before I can call myself a good teacher, I know I'll at least be a strong(er) person for the effort.