Humans, Metaphors, and Other Things

My life is a mixed metaphor.

Of course, now I can't think of a single metaphor to encapsulate my past week, but I'll try.

I'm finally feeling comfortable in my skin with my students. I have had 4 weeks with these students who were prepared to hate me, where I had to pretend that I didn't care what they thought of me and still take on the weighty task of turning the classroom around.

I came in easy, not my normal, whip-cracking, straight-faced, shoot-from-the-hip self. I eased them into it, the whole time knowing that my previous students would be horrified at the things I was "letting" these kids get away with. They were terrified of who I might turn out to be and I was terrified that I wasn't really any good at being a teacher. Many of them had been with the same teacher for at least three years and were worried that their new teacher would be old and mean. (They were half right.)

I was met with outright resistance at first. It ranged from abject refusal and clear disrespect to whiny attempts at arguing and dramatic tears when "the new teacher" was being unreasonable. I came home the first day with somewhat clear intentions of never coming back. The first two weeks horrified me and I had to cling to my favorite quote on my Facebook page, "One of my superstitions has always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, never to turn back or to stop until the thing intended was accomplished." U.S. Grant

I am not a quitter, but I knew deep down in my soul that I would be searching for a new job come spring. My boyfriend would ask me, "Do you even like your students?" I couldn't answer in the affirmative about all of them. I saw the lovable characteristics in some of them, but roughly twelve of them were not so easy to see. I drifted, not knowing what to do, worried that I would have an outright rebellion. Taylor, my boyfriend, helped me there, "Well, you can either go in hard and whip them into shape, or ease them in. What will work?"

I laughed when an 8th grader who absolutely loved horses asked if I was going to ride them hard and break them in. What do you say to that? I came home almost every day dreading to see what tomorrow had to bring. I swear they had a sign-up sheet somewhere entitled, "Chasing Ms. D Away." I'm nearly positive that at least four of the 6th grade girls were taking turns throwing tantrums. I think I had nightmares about Gremlins with children's faces. They didn't seem human, I had no rapport. They didn't care and I was beginning not to care.

Then something happened. They wrote in their journals and I wrote back. They started responding to me, to my humor, to my intelligence, to my know-how. Some of them started coming around, working to meet my expectations, listening, being quiet when I spoke. I still had to moderate my expectations, adding layer after layer as time went on, increasing my expectations so that we could all be satisfied with the day. "Okay, now you know that I mean business, should I really have to ask you to be quiet for the 14th time?"

P.E. used to be a run for the hills, hide in the bathroom, creep up the stage stairs, hide from the teacher hell of 45 minute increments. Now they line up, ask how much of a warm-up we're doing, partner up for Pilates sit-ups, ballet stretches, arm-ripping push-ups, and anything else I might decide upon. Every day they check to make sure that we're having a Ms. D P.E., meaning that we are organized and have a goal in mind. Believe me, I have some kids who still don't know that their bodies are designed to move and play, but they're learning. They've learned that not only does their teacher say what she means and mean what she says, but that she can play a pretty wicked game of "Hotshots" in her pointy high-heels.

They've learned that this teacher is also human this week. This week, I trembled as I sat down in front of them for my morning greeting. My voice shook as I faced them and said, " I need you to be patient with me today. If you call my name or raise your hand and I don't respond, it's not because I don't want to help you, it's because I'm a little pre-occupied today." Tears filled my eyes as I struggled the words out of my throat, "My boyfriend and I broke up yesterday and I'm having a hard time."

The instant sympathy from these kids who put on such a tough front and pretend that they are untouchable, broke my heart for the second time in an 18-hour period. "Omigod Ms. D, do you need a hug? What can we do? What a jerk! Are you okay? What can I do? Do you need a tissue?" They started to rise from their seats and I waved them back, gently, but knowing I would break down if they got up.

"Guys, we gotta be good, 'cuz we gotta give Ms. D a break. Right, Ms. D?" My toughest 8th grade girl looked at me and then stared down the rest of the group.

I shrugged, "That wasn't really my intention, I just didn't want you to think I was ignoring you."

They all smiled, "We gotcha Ms. D." And they did. . . they had my back. I caught them watching me anxiously as I started them on their morning tasks and guided them through our quick grammar review. Tears welled up when I had a second to think about my failed relationship and one of the 6th grade girls literally vaulted to the sink and grabbed the box of tissues. She put it on my overhead projector and went back to her seat, taking up where she had left off with her work. At several points during that half-hour, they turned to watch me at my desk, as I responded to their journals. Another 8th grade girl jumped up and hugged me because I ducked my head to hide my tears. Again the tissue box appeared at my elbow, courtesy of my 6th grader. Their caring made everything better.

A truly high point occurred when one of my very clever 8th grade boys wrote a beautiful fairy tale about a mean, ugly, horrible teacher who hadn't always been that way, some particular boy/man had broken her heart. Of course, the particular boy/man died in a horrifying manner (it was a fairy tale after all) and the mean, ugly, horrible teacher turned back into the beautiful, caring teacher that she had been before. "I didn't mention your name, Ms. D. Is it okay that I wrote about this," he anxiously asked me.

At that point, that particular boy/man dying horribly had a strange sort of appeal and I am not going to stifle a student's zeal for writing. No way. So, of course it was okay.

Our day went on and the resource teacher stayed in at lunch to talk with me. The conversation halted several times as various students peeked through the open door or rushed my desk to hug me. My colleague, who had been sharing the story of her marriage, which had separations and near-divorces in it, just shook her head and smiled as they finally filed out of the classroom, "Can you see how much they love you? Junior high kids are so self-involved, and yet they're checking on you."

The day finished and they filed out the door, having behaved in a manner very befitting of MY students. I was proud of them and unbelievably touched by their love and care. They had to see me as human, so that I could see them as the very human children that they are. My human students, and I am their very human teacher.