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.
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