I haven’t written in a
few years because someone was metaphorically standing over me with a scowl and
it was no longer fun to write. However,
I realized tonight that I always tell my students to write in their journals that
I have given them, when they feel things, any things, meaningful or not. Write them down, I say. Don’t shy away from what you are feeling
because you will learn from it, I say. Face
your fears and realize that by writing you may figure out a few things, I say.
Well, tonight, I’m doing
just that.
I am addicted to Facebook. There.
I said it. I owned it. I’m good with that. Most of you reading this are addicted to Facebook
also because you are reading my blog on Facebook, so ya know, there’s
that. There’s nothing wrong with
this. I think. Although sometimes I think I really don’t
need to see your dinner before you eat it and some of you post way too many non-relevant
YouTube videos. Not that I’m
complaining. The downside of Facebook is
that I have found out three people have died in the past year by simply logging
on. Seriously, it’s ridiculous. I log on to post some snarky reflection on a
disastrous yoga class and Bam! I find
out someone I cared about is dead while standing in line at Nordstrom Rack. (The lines are long when you can’t find some
random green-shirt person to check you out so I get bored). Because of this, I have put back serious
sales items. One cannot just stand in
line at Nordstrom Rack whilst crying just to purchase a pair of Betsy Johnson
pink leopard pumps that are 70% off.
Even I can’t do that. The sad
thing is that they are never there when you go back after you have stopped
crying. Sigh…
Today whilst on Facebook,
I saw that one of my amazing high school students from four years ago graduated
from college. I posted how proud of her
I was. She and her twin sister (who is
also graduating) will probably never know how amazing I thought they were in
high school; they are the kind of students teachers hope for, wish for. I loved having these two girls in my
classes. I loved watching them grow and
blossom and then after they graduated from high school (and I let them “friend
me”) watching them blossom into women who will hopefully take over the world or
at least add to it with their immense presence and fabulousness. One of them wrote back to me about the
influence I had one them. Her eloquent words
made me cry and made realize a few things.
Being a teacher is like
being a combination of a pit bull, a punching bag and a white wall. You push and push and hope your students
learn and of course (groan) do really well on all of those new sparkly Common
Core tests. You yell (hopefully not a
lot), you take their bullshit and disrespect and hope they learn from how they
treated you (after a detention or two) and the reaction you gave them (death
stare) . You talk and lecture and teach and
then get the wonderful questions like “What are we doing?”” and “Was there
homework?” I’m thinking of having my
favorite statement of “I wasn’t listening” turned into a tattoo or a billboard
to hang outside my classroom. I’m
teaching The Stranger right now and
can’t help equate Camus’s absurdity of life to the sometimes absurdity of
teaching. My absolute favorite student statement
has to be “I don’t get it”. I then ask
them to be specific and tell what exactly they “don’t get”. I usually get the blank stare and a repeat of
their comment. I then repeat my comment
and then, well, it just gets ugly.
I hate it. I love it.
I will do anything I can to make them learn but occasionally have to
throw in the towel when the absurdity of the apathy gets just too much for
me. I have actually asked some students
if they are happy being in school. The
ones who show up every day but do no homework, don’t participate in class and
don’t give a crap – those are the ones I ask if they are happy. They can’t possibly be happy. When I ask this question, the ones who aren’t
actually happy usually begin trying to become the student they realize they could
be and then they get an adorable journal from Barnes and Nobel in their
favorite color. It’s not a reward, just
an idea or a suggestion for them. It
usually helps. If not, at least they can
use it as a coaster.
The ones who say they “don’t
care” just get mandatory tutoring, which of course, doesn’t really help,
because, let’s face it they didn’t care to begin with then no pretty purple
butterfly journal will amount to a hill of beans with them. AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH. It’s so frustrating to teach to people who
don’t really want to be taught. They
become an elephant on my head. Something
who really shouldn’t be there and just gives me a headache. I still try to make them become
students. I don’t give up that
easily. After ten years of teaching, I
don’t give up without a fight or at least a parent conference.
Usually the slackers in
my classes like The Stranger because
of the apathy and they find themselves engaged without really even realizing
it, but unfortunately by then, it’s no use and they will still be taking summer
school no matter how much work they actually do during this unit. And I teach English for summer school so they
will still be stuck with me. Hah! It’s a wonderful paradoxical irony.
I teach, on average, 160
students a year. Teenagers. Ugh. They
are their own paradoxes and don’t realize that until I teach philosophy whilst
teaching The Stranger. Remember back to when you were that
age? Too young to be an adult and too
old to be a child. Their parents want
them to have responsibility but won’t let them stay our past ten o’clock on a
school night. They can shave but they
can’t vote. Seriously, they relate to
the word paradox simply because they
are one.
But then, with all of
that, most of them do learn. Something. Well, something-ish.
But…will they remember
it? Will they apply it to college and
adult life? I have no freakin’
clue. I have kids who are fighting in
Afghanistan and in Iraq and this makes me begin to wonder if poetry and
Shakespeare really play a part of their lives now. It should, right? Maybe?
Learning what figurative language is…will that really help them? Ugh. Of
course, the crap I teach helps some of them at least get decent scores on their
SAT’s and I’ve had kids get into UCLA, Brown, Occidental, Tuskegee, Clark, Spelman
– the list, thank goodness, is endless. I had one kid, a retired drug dealer, who got
a 2200 on his SATs with a 4.0 GPA. He’s
going to Berkeley. I wrote one of his
letters of recommendation. He came and
hugged me when he got his letter of acceptance.
I’m good with that.
Okay, here’s my
point: A childhood friend of mine died a
few weeks ago (yep, found out about that one on Facebook too). It seems that someone always dies while I’m
in the middle of teaching The Stranger.
Maybe I should stop teaching it. Anyway, here I am, in the middle of
explaining absurdism and that Albert Camus said that life has no meaning and
then someone who is MY AGE dies some stupid tragic death and I start looking
over my life and wondering if there is any meaning at all. Ya know, in my life. Then I look at my children and realizing that
despite all odds, I am raising two beautiful souls who are kind and intelligent
and funny. Who love to snuggle and make
me wonder with amazement at the things of which they are amazed. I look at the students I have pushed to go to
college or to find their own way in the world, and they share their
accomplishments with their old teacher on Facebook and I realize that I do have
a legacy. That I will be remembered as
the crazy English teacher who wore high heels every day and made them write a
million essays and do weird but poignant projects and made them think or
consider or analyze things in a whole new way and made them care about their
future and realize they need to be selfish with their education and
destinies.
That maybe, just maybe
when I die there will be people who will live on after me who will remember,
and push the next generation forward because Ms. Levine would have wanted that. Maybe…
Tell you one thing – it sure
felt good to write this.
