Easel Envy

Someone has the best easel in the whole world. It is the luxury car of easels, complete with magnets to hold big book pages, drawers for books, and little dishes for markers. The best part: the whole thing is magnetic. You heard me, the whole easel - frame and white board - are magnetic. I could make out with the easel right now I love it so much.

I have been a non-classroom teacher for a little over a month. Today, while stroking such a piece of art, I wished I was the main lady in the classroom once again.

Sorry if I snapped at you 40 minutes ago. It was displaced anger.

At the end of the day I was So Very Angry that I could not articulate my frustration into anything but simple sentences. Simple sentences and curse words. Don't worry, the curse words came after school. Right before I hid in a corner so that I could not inflict my wicked witch furry on unsuspecting nice people.

I think I might have shocked some people, mainly the 20 little people who swarm around me like little bees. They often see my anger. A cold, calm anger about raising hands and sharing. I accompany that anger with a confused look of "Really? We are spending time for this? Especially since I know you know how to solve that problem." We laugh about that anger, we tease it out and sing songs about.

Today’s anger - that was something special. A hot, boiling anger of a disappointment and disgust. This anger does not come out often. It is scary and sharp. Full of bite. This anger is let down anger. As in, I gave you me heart and all you gave me was this pen, anger. Without realizing it, I have changed as a teacher, and my anger mirrors this change.

Naturally, I am cold and distant. I have enough friends, I have enough loved ones. School is business. However, in my joy of reading, writing, mathing, and historying, I have spilled some tightly sealed care. Something I tightly guard, because with care runs with the same crowd as disappointment and loss. Feelings my light personality do not enjoy. But I do care. I do care that my little bees enjoy learning, I do care that they feel confident in their abilities. I do care because I like to see them happy. My self worth and happiness has become intertwined with their self worth and happiness. I am not their queen bee; I am their mama bee.

So, my wee ones, I am sorry I let you down, but you let me down too. But if you are going to love me, you are going to have to love all the things about me. And I love you.

Broken Nails and broken hearts

I am very vain. I like having shiny hair. I like being a petite stature. I loved my perfectly manicured nails. No polish on these babies, the natural rosie nail beds and white tips did not need to hide behind bright reds varnishes.

I loved my nails. But today, I broke two nails. Broke Two. Normal wear and tear of the teaching day? Not for me. Heavy labor? Only typing and some dictionary browsing. Classroom catastrophe? Not in the classroom - intern has commandeered the teaching.

No, the only cause of this disaster effect is emotional. One of my favorite students is leaving. He is smart, and funny, and caring, and creative. But he is also slow in transitions, still developing his fine motor skills, often 2 steps behind during the lesson, and defiant to strangers. Will his new teacher see beyond is round about monologues? Will the new teacher know that through his garbled speech he is making a connection between Native Americans and steps in multiplication? That he only needs gentle reminders about eye contact and off task behavior? That he needs a couple of weeks, not a couple of days, to fully understand a new routine?

Will the new teacher write off his glimmers of insight as anomalies inside this often off task student? I wish I had faith enough in education to say yes, the new teacher will see and foster his potential. That no matter what the school, no matter what the county, that any educator will see this whole child, creating an empowering environment for this child that supports the weaknesses and encourages the strengths.

But I don't have this faith. I am suspicious of the county he will be moving to. I do not know his new school. I do not know if he will be lost in a broken system, where he will be defined by his weaknesses rather then his strengths.

And I am powerless; and my nails are showing the result.

Feeling Unloved

Every year, on the last day of school, I give students their report card envelope. In the envelope is the report card, of course, and a final letter to them and their families. Included in the letter is my home address and my email address. I tell them that if they write to me, I will write back to them. Some years I get as much as half of my class writing to me at least once. Some years only two or three kids write. This year, almost two weeks out, I haven't heard from one kid. This class had a higher percentage of kids with email addresses than any group I've ever had before. And still, none of them have even sent me an email. Was I that unimportant in their lives? Or are they just that lazy?