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.

Obstacles: Self-Doubt, Discouragement, the Whole Bit

(Note: I posted 3 entries today, in backward chronological order. I wrote one, but it was far too long to be one post, so I broke it into 3 parts--this is part 1, the entry about the purpose of (English) teachers and literacy education is part 2, and the entry about my struggles with unit/lesson planning is part 3. Just FYI. But each entry, obviously, stands alone, too)

Well, I've avoided the blog successfully for altogether too long now. There are a couple of reasons for that. One is that last week was very discouraging--between a workload from my classes that I thought I'd never be able to manage and co-teaching (which really ended up meaning my mentor teacher teaching while I pretty much stood there) a lesson on complex and compound sentences, I started to lose heart.

Another reason is that this week has been insanely busy and phenomenal. I did a lot of work with a special ed teacher at my placement, which was really useful and enlightening. I planned a lesson on writing in which I got to write to the prompt students are using, model my writing and revision process, and do a peer revision workshop all four periods out of the day. And I got a lot of work out of the way for my Pitt classes, which was a relief. In short, this week, I felt like superwoman, and last week, I guess I felt a little bit more like...oh, I don't know, Eeore, or some other negative-Nancy with a bad self image and a lack of motivation.

I'm saying this to offer explanation for my long break in writing--boy, would Penny Kittle be cross with me! What a far cry from writing every day!--and to give a sense of how pre-student-teaching feels to me, right now, just after finishing week 8 of classes. I mean, I've gone through it all so far--feeling like I'm the best possible teacher candidate in the universe, feeling like I'm not qualified to work with the public at all, much less teach high school students, feeling like the workload I'm presented with through my program is physically impossible to manage, feeling like I can complete all of my work for Pitt, go to work on the weekend, and still have free time to do whatever I want--In short, I've contradicted myself more in the past two weeks than I have probably at any other time in my life. For the first time in my life, I feel like I might really be struggling to learn something. I'm not supposed to be bad at things! At least not things that have to do with school! But, here I am, questioning my ability to become a real, true, quality educator.

And I don't know, really, why that is. No one's telling me that I'm not teacher material. Actually, many of my professors, my Mentor teacher, my University supervisor--she's a retired English teacher who acts as something of a liaison between the University and my placement and makes sure I'm meeting the requirements of both institutions to the greatest possible extent--all are telling me that I'm doing well, that there's a good teacher in the making buried somewhere inside of me for sure. But why don't I feel it?

One of my professors--we'll call her Professor X, just because I think it's fun to use code names--told me that many studies have found that the pedagogy and the strategies and techniques, all the wisdom and knowledge we're accumulating from the zillion-and-a-half researchers and professors and vet teachers that we're reading, whose names I can hardly keep strait, all the feedback we're getting from the phenomenal educators at the University of Pittsburgh, all this training won't really make a difference until our second year of teaching. I don't mean to put words in her mouth, or in the mouths of the researchers who did the study. She wasn't talking about us specifically. She just said that the studies showed that to be the case for the majority of the novice teachers they studied. Still, it's a hard thing to hear. Part of me wants to declare, "No way! Not me! I'm the exception! I'll use understanding-by-design Smagorinsky-modeled inquiry-based units from the beginning of my first day! I'll be building literacy communities from the get-go! There's no way I'll let my students go a whole year without the quality instruction they deserve!" But the truth of the matter is, I know that would be a total lie. I can't even guarantee I'm using best practices in my mentor teacher's classroom, with what feels like (usually) the entire University of Pittsburgh to support me. But it's such a disheartening thing to think I'm going to make a ton of mistakes this semester and next, and not give students the quality of education they deserve. And to think that I might get a job in a real school, with my own classroom and my own students and even--dream upon dreams!--my own curriculum, and I might still spend a whole year floundering around, trying to get my teacher legs, trying to figure out how to do what I'm getting paid to do, what my students are COUNTING on me, DEPENDING on me to do, is totally terrifying and depressing. And what about me that year? It's stressful enough to think I'm not a good teacher after doing it part-time for 8 weeks. If I have to look in the mirror after being a full-time teacher-of-record in a classroom for 6 months, and say, "you know, I still don't really understand this whole teaching thing," I don't know if I'll be able to look at myself at all!

Professor X, if you're reading this, please don't despair! I bear you no ill will for telling me this information--in fact, I'm glad to know it! In my view, knowledge gives you power, and having knowledge, even when it's depressing, discouraging, not-what-I-want-to-hear knowledge, at least I have an idea of what I may have to deal with.

But, in thinking about myself as a teacher, pre-service teacher, future teacher, or whatever, there were a few questions that came to my mind as far as what matters to me, to making me a good teacher, etc.