What Matters is How I Decide to See Every Day
This is my last full week of summer break. My school packet has arrived in my mailbox. I know what I’m teaching next year. (Two sections of English 2 Honors means double the quest papers! Yay! And three sections of College Prep English 2 makes for a great balance!) I know where my assigned parking spot is. Our institute days are next Thursday and Friday, and we kick off the year with a bonafide, full-day and a full week of school.
Usually this time of the year is bittersweet for me. I’ve spent some quality time at the pool, reading some great books, and I’ve logged some hours in front of the computer typing up some important articles. I’ve usually spent some time thinking about the really deep issues I’ve been facing during the year, and coming to some sort of conclusions. Last year, I was faced with the decision of whether or not to go back to teaching at all. I had spent the summer trying my hand at writing full-time, only to discover that it wasn’t exactly what I wanted. What I wanted, I had decided, was to teach like my hair was on fire:
Because teaching isn’t just imparting knowledge, it’s listening, asking the right questions, letting someone cry, laughing your butt off. All of these, every day. With style, poise, and verve.
So little of teaching is actually imparting knowledge, which is why our test-taking culture has got it all wrong. And it’s also why the media has it wrong, and, subsequently, why so many other people have it wrong. All they can look at is the quantitative measure of test scores; they can’t seem to see the qualitative value of what we do every day.
One of my favorite professors told us all the time to teach like your hair is on fire. My hair hasn’t been on fire for a long time, but I think it’s time to set the blaze. (Metaphorically, of course.)
It’s no accident, then, that last school year, I had one of the best years of my life. Sure, I won the student lottery last year, but I think there’s more to it than that. I told myself I’d have a great year – I psyched myself up for it – and I did.
This year, I’ve gone through a very similar identity crisis. After almost a full year of working on a book, I had to give it up, and in the process, I came to almost the exact same realization that I always come to: I love my life, I love what I do, and I don’t have to prove anything to anyone else.
Except then I realized that life doesn’t, in fact, end when you turn 30, or even when you have kids. And I realized that, if this blog, my work at GAB and Care2, my list of work published on other sites isn’t proof of being a writer, what is? And I looked back on notes my students wrote me at the end of the school year. “Thank you for having such an impact on my life.” “Thank you for teaching me that bullies don’t carry the weight I think they do.” “Sophomore year was awkward and awful, just like you said it would be, but being able to come to your class for an hour a day was a relief.”
All of these things I’ve done? All of this writing and activism and teaching and their intersection?
This is worthwhile. This is an accomplishment.
Then it hit me. Writing isn’t a profession. It’s a way of life. It’s a way of seeing the world and analyzing what is in front of you. It’s a philosophy of life and teaching. It’s more than a book; it’s a lifestyle. And I’m living it.
Writing and teaching are lifestyles, not professions. And it’s no wonder I’ve come to them both; they both fill me with the same sense of purpose and the same outlet for what I believe in: people. I believe in the core of my being that we need to invest in people if we are to succeed.
This year, our entire curriculum has been rewritten. We’re starting from scratch with the inspiration of new educational reforms to guide us. At first, I was worried that this year wouldn’t be as great as last year because of this. How will I hook my students if I can’t teach them Fahrenheit 451? How will I pique their interest if I can’t share lessons about reality TV with them? How will I ever get to know my students this year as well as I got to know them last year?
Here’s the thing, though. It’s not about what I teach or the students to whom I teach it. Last year wasn’t my only successful year; it was just a great year after a not-so-great one. The constant among all of those good years, no matter what I teach, has been me. After all, “teaching isn’t just imparting knowledge, it’s listening, asking the right questions, letting someone cry, laughing your butt off. All of these, every day. With style, poise, and verve.” It doesn’t matter what or whom I teach. What matters is how I do it, and how I decide to see each day.
And I’ve decided. This year, without a doubt, is going to be another great year.
Photo Credit: Ed Yourdon