Professionalism.
In the beginning, I wore lipstick. And my pants were too tight to wear around children.
And then I got all the Crocs.
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To be honest, this is a really hard profession in which to be professional because you're working with kids, and kids are hard. This is a profession where the changes are continuous and the choices teachers have to make are not only continuous, but they are also hard. It's really difficult in this moment to narrow it down to just one tough decision that I've had to make as a teacher over two years, a decision requiring sound judgment -- heck, I couldn't even narrow it down to one week. Recently, I had to decide to write up a kid for getting so aggravated at me for giving him simple verbal warnings that he verbally assaulted me. Twenty minutes later, I had to decide to write up a kid because his cell phone went off twice during a quiz, and then he refused to give it to me as his consequence. Two periods later, I had to decide to put my foot down about a kid wearing sunglasses in my class because they were distracting to everyone. All of this in one day. All of this unnerving to a second year teacher. All of this. They seem like such small and trivial decisions, but I read something recently that really made a lot of sense: a teacher makes more on-the-spot decisions than a surgeon. This is why we go home so tired every night. And this is why the kids look to us to set the tone and lead. This is also why we (well, really just me) have to wear Crocs to work to support us (literally).
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But if we're really talking about tough decisions, how about my decision not to quit this second year. I've been really struggling with my fifth period class. I've got three very low students (as in literally can't read); I've got seven guys that are behavioral nightmares and simultaneously apathetic about everything we do; I've got four sassy girls that snap back at any request I make; I've got five students who just need the extra help; and I've got six girls that just want to please me and do their work and graduate. Before Christmas, I sent an email to my principal and my instructional leader asking for help: any help -- anything they can give me. One week later, my principal stops by when he sees two students out of my class in "time-out" in the hallway. He gives my whole class a "motivational speech" about the "high apples" and the "low apples" and how only the high apples will get to graduate because they are closer to God. He also mentioned that the low apples had bad families. It really did a lot for my management. Two weeks later, my instructional leader stops by to do a formal observation in this class. She leaves half-way through, and I go to talk to her after school. She admits that my class "seems tough" and that I "will probably struggle the whole year with them." She suggests I use a timer to help transition between activities. And that's it.
I'm not usually one to rag on my administrators -- I know they help out in ways I don't see and that they have difficult jobs (like creating this bulletin board -- see right). I know that there are days when we are all just doing the best we can, but this was a very real, very apparent problem. I walked out of school on that day, I sat in my car, I cried it out, and I prayed to God that He would tell me if I could do this or not. Last year, if I had had this class, it might have been no -- this might have sent me over the edge. But this year, I changed. I knew I could do it. I just had to want to do it.
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But I made my decision: I was going to do it; I was going to keep trying. I was going to stick with them -- the fifth period students; the administrators; the school. For months, the consequences of this decision were hard: I was tired; I was having stress-related maladies; I was mentally and physically drained -- and I knew that I was in for more. If someone was to ask me tomorrow, in the middle of fifth period, if I would make this same decision to stay, I don't know if my answer would be the same, but I do know that May 26 will come, and fifth period will be over forever, and I will have grown professionally because I stuck it out with them.
Meet my second period from my first year, the period I didn't think I could make it through all year (and I did).
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All this being said, I do know this: I love those kids. I love the ones that love me back. I love the ones that don't. I love them because this is sometimes all I can do. I love them because even when they are aggravating me I want to help them. I love them because they'll look at me sometimes and I swear I can see right down into their hearts. I love them because I don't know how not to. I can't make them love me back; I can't make them always do what I ask or speak to me respectfully. I can write them up and make them mad and fail to entertain them, but they aren't getting rid of me this easily. And I don't know if that is professional in the traditional sense of the word, but in the world of public education, I think it is. I think that says that I am committed and strong and determined to help them.
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When all else fails, we've got to look to those with more knowledge than us for what to say and what to do. "Been down one time, been down two times: never going back again."