This is Why I Teach: September 27th, 2014
"True teachers are those who use themselves as bridges over which they invite their students to cross; then, having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create their own." ~Nikos Kazantzakis
I know I've started these notes out with my age several times, but I think it's important for context. I'm 24, and have recently (and by recently, I mean like my whole life), have wondered what I'm supposed to do with my life. I graduated toward the top of my class every time I've graduated from a learning institution, and so often, I wonder if I could have done something different with my life. Something grander sounding. Something that would go in a magazine or on a commercial or merit Lucy Liu playing me in a movie.
More recently (like the past 3 months), I've been restless. The feelings are familiar. They're the same ones I felt toward the end of my second year of my time in Teach for America. The same ones I felt those anxious months before I graduated from UCSD. They're questioning feelings, "what's next?" feelings, "am I supposed to be somewhere else?" "maybe I need to move..." "am I doing anything that's worth anything at all in the grand scheme of things?" feelings.
Tonight, I attended the Lights Up event at the Mingei Museum at Balboa Park because two of my students were being honored. Natasha Oslinger placed as a finalist for the competition and Sol Manuel Garza won a production for his play. There were over 550 submissions state-wide for this contest, and 21 finalists- 2 of whom were once students in my classroom, being honored for plays they wrote while taking my class. Out of those 21, 8 students won production. I'm not quite a math whiz, but I figure if you divide 8 by 581 entries, you get 0.0137, and you turn that into a percentage and get 1.3% and that means one of my students was part of that 1.3% whose plays were lauded as the cream of the crop.
I bring a lot of myself into my classroom every day. I'm weird. I'm awkward. I'm quirky. I'm a hopeless romantic, which means sometimes I'm desperately sad (I try not to show that). I love theatre, and I love writing, and I am very fond of ambitious mistakes--when students take huge risks and often fail. To me, that's true bravery. And that's what I want. I want to make braver people of this next generation.
Tonight, I sat next to a nervous Sol Manuel, as he waited for his name to be called. He was home schooled most of his life until he ended up in my classroom last year. I have pretty distinct memories of him asking to meet with me because he didn't understand deadlines, or he was very confused about what he was supposed to do. Me, being the unorganized bohemian I am, always answered with, "I'm not sure." or "I don't know, what do YOU think you're supposed to do?" or "There's not exactly a right answer in my class. I don't know. What's your answer?" He was frustrated with me for a lot of the first semester, but grew to realize that my classroom was a place inviting him to create something of his own, and that I was trying to be as open as possible. Tonight, his mom came up to me and said, "There's no way he would have ever written a play without your class," and "Thank you so much. We are so blessed you came into our lives."
That's all great (and I'm honored) but that kind of conversation makes me pretty awkward and uncomfortable because I don't quite know what to say. Where I found myself REALLY comfortable, was sitting back, watching Sol Manuel being honored for his piece, and watching adults all around talking about how incredible his writing is. I felt more excited for him than I've ever felt for any piece of my own writing. I couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop taking pictures, couldn't stop tearing up when people talked about students taking risks and writing from the heart. So much so that the photographer covering the event came up to me after and said, "You're his teacher, right? I've never seen anyone so happy for an accomplishment that wasn't theirs. I have so many pictures of you because you were so cute the whole time!"
I have to admit that this year has been really hard on my heart. I've contemplated many times in recent weeks leaving the teaching profession to go back to theatre, to go to graduate school, or to work somewhere where I could leave my work at work. Teaching has always crept into my life like vines, draping over every other facet of my identity. Friends will say I disappear for years at a time. My family has received many a "I can't, I'm with students" text in response to invitations to family gatherings. I try to go to the gym, but I haven't been in a very long time because of the not as instantly rewarding things like grading or planning or creating worksheets in googledocs. This year in particular has been quite the stressor. I've doubted myself and my beliefs about education more than I ever have. "Maybe I should care more about executive functioning skills" has crossed my mind at least 100 times in the past two weeks. "Maybe that's what I should be teaching to these 9th graders who can't turn in a worksheet on time."
When Sol Manuel eloquently talked about his play in front of that room full of people, I realized exactly why I teach. I realized exactly why I am here. I entered that contest every year since I was 14 (you have to be 19 or younger). I never won. But the ability to write and be heard is something that has stuck with me my entire life. And it's something that I want to give every single student that walks through my classroom door. I feel so much excitement and so much joy for students' accomplishments. I am at my happiest watching my students succeed in ways they never dreamed were possible, in ways that I never succeeded. Watching students succeed gives me a high that no drug could ever give me.
Before tonight's event, I was googling other things I could do with my life. Other places I could be. Several stood out to me as things I'd like to try, lives I'd like to live for a little bit. But what I am right now, an amalgamation of really weird and zany experiences, a lot of heartache, a lot of joy, a lot of love, a lot of awkwardness, a lot of useless useless information that I find fascinating, is exactly what I think I need to be in the classroom.
On top of my many existential crises questions that I have been experiencing lately, I have doubted pretty frequently whether or not I'm an adult. I still feel like a kid in so many ways. The thought of a pony still makes me really giddy, and I still crave cotton candy every once in a while. I smile at weird things, and I laugh at even stranger things. I see the world through really childish eyes in a lot of ways, and it is the education that has permeated my life that forces me to filter my speech before it comes out of my mouth.
Something Eberhard Arnold once said resonates with me tonight: "Only those who look with the eyes of children can lose themselves in the object of their wonder."
Here's to children. The ones who will be tomorrow, and the one I hope I'll stay forever.
Stay childlike everyone.
Love,
Carol
I know I've started these notes out with my age several times, but I think it's important for context. I'm 24, and have recently (and by recently, I mean like my whole life), have wondered what I'm supposed to do with my life. I graduated toward the top of my class every time I've graduated from a learning institution, and so often, I wonder if I could have done something different with my life. Something grander sounding. Something that would go in a magazine or on a commercial or merit Lucy Liu playing me in a movie.
More recently (like the past 3 months), I've been restless. The feelings are familiar. They're the same ones I felt toward the end of my second year of my time in Teach for America. The same ones I felt those anxious months before I graduated from UCSD. They're questioning feelings, "what's next?" feelings, "am I supposed to be somewhere else?" "maybe I need to move..." "am I doing anything that's worth anything at all in the grand scheme of things?" feelings.
Tonight, I attended the Lights Up event at the Mingei Museum at Balboa Park because two of my students were being honored. Natasha Oslinger placed as a finalist for the competition and Sol Manuel Garza won a production for his play. There were over 550 submissions state-wide for this contest, and 21 finalists- 2 of whom were once students in my classroom, being honored for plays they wrote while taking my class. Out of those 21, 8 students won production. I'm not quite a math whiz, but I figure if you divide 8 by 581 entries, you get 0.0137, and you turn that into a percentage and get 1.3% and that means one of my students was part of that 1.3% whose plays were lauded as the cream of the crop.
I bring a lot of myself into my classroom every day. I'm weird. I'm awkward. I'm quirky. I'm a hopeless romantic, which means sometimes I'm desperately sad (I try not to show that). I love theatre, and I love writing, and I am very fond of ambitious mistakes--when students take huge risks and often fail. To me, that's true bravery. And that's what I want. I want to make braver people of this next generation.
Tonight, I sat next to a nervous Sol Manuel, as he waited for his name to be called. He was home schooled most of his life until he ended up in my classroom last year. I have pretty distinct memories of him asking to meet with me because he didn't understand deadlines, or he was very confused about what he was supposed to do. Me, being the unorganized bohemian I am, always answered with, "I'm not sure." or "I don't know, what do YOU think you're supposed to do?" or "There's not exactly a right answer in my class. I don't know. What's your answer?" He was frustrated with me for a lot of the first semester, but grew to realize that my classroom was a place inviting him to create something of his own, and that I was trying to be as open as possible. Tonight, his mom came up to me and said, "There's no way he would have ever written a play without your class," and "Thank you so much. We are so blessed you came into our lives."
That's all great (and I'm honored) but that kind of conversation makes me pretty awkward and uncomfortable because I don't quite know what to say. Where I found myself REALLY comfortable, was sitting back, watching Sol Manuel being honored for his piece, and watching adults all around talking about how incredible his writing is. I felt more excited for him than I've ever felt for any piece of my own writing. I couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop taking pictures, couldn't stop tearing up when people talked about students taking risks and writing from the heart. So much so that the photographer covering the event came up to me after and said, "You're his teacher, right? I've never seen anyone so happy for an accomplishment that wasn't theirs. I have so many pictures of you because you were so cute the whole time!"
I have to admit that this year has been really hard on my heart. I've contemplated many times in recent weeks leaving the teaching profession to go back to theatre, to go to graduate school, or to work somewhere where I could leave my work at work. Teaching has always crept into my life like vines, draping over every other facet of my identity. Friends will say I disappear for years at a time. My family has received many a "I can't, I'm with students" text in response to invitations to family gatherings. I try to go to the gym, but I haven't been in a very long time because of the not as instantly rewarding things like grading or planning or creating worksheets in googledocs. This year in particular has been quite the stressor. I've doubted myself and my beliefs about education more than I ever have. "Maybe I should care more about executive functioning skills" has crossed my mind at least 100 times in the past two weeks. "Maybe that's what I should be teaching to these 9th graders who can't turn in a worksheet on time."
When Sol Manuel eloquently talked about his play in front of that room full of people, I realized exactly why I teach. I realized exactly why I am here. I entered that contest every year since I was 14 (you have to be 19 or younger). I never won. But the ability to write and be heard is something that has stuck with me my entire life. And it's something that I want to give every single student that walks through my classroom door. I feel so much excitement and so much joy for students' accomplishments. I am at my happiest watching my students succeed in ways they never dreamed were possible, in ways that I never succeeded. Watching students succeed gives me a high that no drug could ever give me.
Before tonight's event, I was googling other things I could do with my life. Other places I could be. Several stood out to me as things I'd like to try, lives I'd like to live for a little bit. But what I am right now, an amalgamation of really weird and zany experiences, a lot of heartache, a lot of joy, a lot of love, a lot of awkwardness, a lot of useless useless information that I find fascinating, is exactly what I think I need to be in the classroom.
On top of my many existential crises questions that I have been experiencing lately, I have doubted pretty frequently whether or not I'm an adult. I still feel like a kid in so many ways. The thought of a pony still makes me really giddy, and I still crave cotton candy every once in a while. I smile at weird things, and I laugh at even stranger things. I see the world through really childish eyes in a lot of ways, and it is the education that has permeated my life that forces me to filter my speech before it comes out of my mouth.
Something Eberhard Arnold once said resonates with me tonight: "Only those who look with the eyes of children can lose themselves in the object of their wonder."
Here's to children. The ones who will be tomorrow, and the one I hope I'll stay forever.
Stay childlike everyone.
Love,
Carol