Becoming a teacher - a terrifying pursuit.

Dear Buff,

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret that no one really talks about - yes, people talk about how important teachers are, they talk about how they don’t get paid enough, they talk about all they have to do, how they’re raising the next generation of humans - but no one tells you how terrifyingly hard it’s going to be.

No one talks about your first first day of school, and how it’s the most terrifying experience you’ve ever had to face. You have this classroom full of 25-30 little humans coming, and expecting you to know what you’re doing (spoiler alert, you don’t.) I remember once, 6 years ago, when I took my very first introduction to education class at community college, our professor showed us a youtube video of a teacher documenting her first year of school. We all laughed as the woman, on the verge of tears, telling dramatic stories that seemed like they shouldn’t be a big deal, talking about her first year as a teacher.

I’m not laughing anymore. I’ve only been on the brink of tears twice so far, but I’m definitely not laughing anymore.

Here’s why it’s so hard.

Let’s start with the two weeks leading up to your first day of school with students. You sit in sessions all day long being flooded with curriculum and school values. You get pep talks about how important it is to have goals. You talk about the importance of breaking students out of the failure mindset. You have all these amazing dreams pop into your head. Yes! We’re going to make weekly goals, and assess how they’re going. Okay, we can have an objective wall up so the students know exactly what they’re learning and where we’re going. I’d love to have a small space in the class where students who need a break can calm themselves down. You hear success stories of teachers who’ve inspired their kindergarteners to write whole paragraphs. You wonder how you can fit things like that into your day of mandatory curriculum. You think about the decor of the room. You have 15 lists of things you need to do - desk arrangements, seat assignment, homework system, special education modifications, supply system. You make constant lists of the things you’re going to need - folders, notebooks, bulletin board paper, borders, stapler, pencil sharpener, name tags, journals, markers, scissors, pencils, so many pencils.

You have entire 30 minute discussions on how you’re going to handle pencils in your room. Are you going to provide them, are you going to have consequences for lost pencils, are you going to expect them to bring their own? When will the pencils get sharpened? Will anyone have access to the sharpener? Will it be a classroom job?

Did I mention all this has happened before day 3 of orientation week?

Let’s skip forward to the day before school starts. The bulletin boards are up, even though they have nothing on them. You’ve stayed until 9pm each night with your co-teacher to make sure all things that had to be handed in have been completed. You’ve thought about how to handle disciplinary situations (which gives you small panic attacks because oh no, if they realize there’s really not a ton you can do you’re in for a small coup in your class...). It’s 8pm and you still haven’t gotten around to putting their names on their desks. You shove the things that haven’t found a home yet into whatever space is left (which isn’t a lot). You quickly throw together a plan for the day - because holy cow, a full day of school is a lot to fill when you’ve never even met this group of kiddos. You tell yourself you just have to make it to lunch and then you can take a deep breath and prepare for the rest of the day.

You walk out at 9pm, turn the lights off, and tell yourself it's going to be okay. If God called you to this work, He will give you the strength to do it.

And then you make it through each day telling yourself that thought. You deal with the student who’s flipping desks in the back of the room with that thought. You improvise your Math lesson with that thought. You realize it’s day 6 and you still haven’t assigned homework. Oops. They don’t even have homework folders. You call the student who hasn’t shown up yet, and mom tells you she can’t afford a school uniform because she’s losing her house. You make a mental note to follow up, but then the 345 other things that come up throughout the day distract you and you don’t get around to it. You tell Franklin you're gonna call his mom if he doesn't stop putting his head down - and say a little prayer that the threat works because you can't stop class to call his mom. There's not time for that. There's no time for much of anything - you haven't even gotten to look through your special education paperwork. You know there's 13 little darlings who need special attention, and you know you have about 5 minutes a day to give it to them.

I was talking to a friend the other day, trying to explain why it's all so overwhelming. I told her, "It's like I'm driving a car down the highway of 4th grade. We're trying to get to 5th grade without losing anyone. However, I have to simultaneously type up a 15 page research curriculum paper and make sure they're learning, while also spoon feeding about 3 different children just to make sure they keep up. Oh, and I'm also decorating a bulletin board every couple miles. Did I mention crashing is not an option?"

But it’s okay. You’re doing your best, and you’re learning that it’s just going to be hard for a little while. You stay as late as you can and then you try again the next day. I promised myself I would have 110% to my classroom this year. It’s taking everything I have, but it’s what these babies need.

Can’t wait to see what I’ll be telling you in June next year. While doing hard things makes me feel just a teeny bit stronger every day, I sure hope it’s gotten easier.

Love, Ees.