All Things Are Possible

   Tiffany is being forced to transfer to a different school. Why? According to the district, records show "insufficient certification in the field of early childhood," which means she's certified to teach elementary grades, but not kindergarten. Are they providing a teacher to replace her? Nope. Do her kids have anywhere to go? Nope. Are they worried about this? Nope.
    Didn't they tell you? No teacher at all is better than a teacher who is certified in the wrong grade. Duh.
    This means by the end of the week, Tiffany's 23 kids will be split up into the remaining kindergarten classrooms. The district expects our principal to dig around and find someone else. There's just one problem. There are no more kindergarten teachers in our district. Zero. Nada. Zip. They don't exist. The current plan is to stuff each classroom with 30-plus kids until next semester, when a new wave of early graduates will hopefully hit the market. If we're lucky, we might snag a new teacher. If we're lucky.
 
    Months before I decided to join Teach for America, I had a dream that I will never forget. I saw the frozen bodies of children in a darkened school room, and when I reached out my hand to touch them, they came to life. At the time, I was so buried in applications for jobs in journalism that the dream was inconsequential. But it was so vivid and terrifying that I wrote it down in my journal. It stuck. When, through the most unlikely of scenarios, I was accepted into Teach for America, I remembered.
    Does God still speak to us through dreams? I really don't know. But I do know this. I've never been so certain about something before in my life. Many have suggested that I quit. On numerous occasions. I don't have to put myself through this. I can go back home and find a better job where I can get more than 3 minutes a day to scoff down a sandwich and don't feel stretched to the breaking point every single week.
    But I can't. I can't quit. The idea is so utterly foreign to me that it takes effort to even conceive the possibility. God is with me. I know it. I'm being asked to do the impossible, but it doesn't matter. When I try to think of other options, I can't. There's nothing else I can imagine myself doing right now. This is it. This is right. This is my job. It needs to be done. This is my path. I must walk it.
    I used to find those people frustrating. You know... those people who insist, "You just know," as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. How do you choose the right school, the right spouse or career? How do you make the right decision when all decisions seem equal? "You just know." - How do you know? - "You just know that you know."
    Utterly unhelpful. But I find myself in the same place. I just know. I know that I know.
    The thought is at once liberating and terrifying, comforting yet awful. When we walk in the will of God, we know we can accomplish whatever he sets before us. We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. But it doesn't make it easy. In fact, I'm terrified. If the rest of the year is like this, I truly don't know how I'll survive. I know that I will survive. I just don't know how.

   Lord, silence the voice of fear in my life and fan into flame the gifts that you have given me by the power of your Holy Spirit to accomplish the task that you have set before me. Other teachers are saying it's impossible. So many kids in a single classroom? Impossible to teach. Impossible. And it is. But your grace is sufficient. Your grace is enough. Make your strength perfect in my weakness. Show the world that you and you alone are God.

    "God gave us not a spirit of fear, but of power and love and self-control."

- 2 Timothy 1:7

from October 28th, 2012

 

Thee Peed Herthelf!

    Aaliyia had an accident this Wednesday, and it was my fault. The poor girl was too scared to ask. I've been cracking down on the kids who take "bathroom breaks" to play in the stalls. It's worked. So well, in fact, that kids who really do need to use the bathroom don't even ask. I felt horrible.
    Aaliyia was in a corner of the classroom for quiet reading time and just stood there, staring at me, dead still, wide-eyed and quiet. Her best friend Gessika noticed shortly after. The only problem? Gessika shouted so loud the whole class could hear her.
    "Teacher! Thee peed herthelf! Aaliyia peed herthelf!"
    "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!"
    Poor Aaliyia was humiliated. I sent Aaliyia with Gessika to the nurse. They came back five minutes later.
    "The nurthe ithn't here today."
    There was nothing I could do. Not with Aaliyia standing there in dripping pants and 24 other kids whispering, "She peed herself!" all around the classroom.
    I took Aaliyia by the hand. "Aaliyia, you're gonna be fine." She didn't say a word. A puddle of urine still decorated the floor. Her dark eyes stared at me in a mixture of pain and humiliation. "Wait here."
   Everyone was "out" that could have possibly helped. I gathered up the class and took them to PE as fast as possible. When I got back, Aaliyia was still waiting. Her wet pants clung to her legs. She hadn't moved an inch.
    "You're gonna be fine, Aaliyia." She looked anything but fine. I felt awful. "Let's go and get you some new clothes."
    There was only one person in the office. She showed me the clothes closet, and I sifted through to find a pair of yellow shorts, a white t-shirt, and a new pair of underwear. Aaliyia changed her clothes in the girls bathroom and, fifteen minutes later, scuttled off to PE as if nothing had ever happened.
   I picked up the phone in my classroom and dialed Aaliyia's grandmother. She'd be wondering why Aaliyia was coming home with new clothes. What would she say? I prepared myself for an apology. Another strike against "that white teacher."
from October 20th, 2012

I Love You, Teacher

    I snapped this week.   
    It was during dismissal. The hallway was crazy. Kids running wild. Fighting, punching, screaming, shouting. The chaos trickled into my room. Within minutes, my kids had unraveled into a scene of pandemonium.
    I could barely keep tabs on everyone. Parents were coming in and out as they pleased, papers were flying everywhere, and in the midst of everything, the intercom blasted with an announcement that I could barely hear because the noise was deafening.
    I strained at the intercom while kids ran circles around me and Daryl squealed and whined about another kid who was making fun of him. The announcement ended. I'd missed every word. I clenched my fists in anger and screamed.
    "SIDDOWN AND BE QUIET!!!!!!!!!!!"
    The words echoed in my brain. I paused in my rage and blinked at the scene around me. Harry had come back into the room wanting to say goodbye. He had taken me by the legs and squeezed and whispered, "I love you, teacher!" as the words exploded from my mouth. The scene replayed in my head:  
    I'd snapped. Screamed. Harry had jumped at the sound of my rage. The words, "I love you, teacher," were still fresh on his lips. His grandmother was standing behind me. She grabbed Harry by the hand and left the room without a word.
    I blinked and called out breathlessly, "Goodbye, Harry!" But he was gone. I could barely swallow my shame.
from October 20, 2012
    
   

My Mama's in Heaven

 

    Ra'Vae carries an aura about her. She walks into school every morning with a set of braided pig-tails, a Hannah Montana backpack, and a look of fierce intensity. She is the first to help out around the classroom, quick to comfort a hurting child, and the only student who simply tells a rule-breaker "stop being bad" instead of tattling. Ra'Vae is a ring-leader — but in a good way — and her current job is to tie shoes (since almost nobody can).
    On Wednesday Ra'Vae lost it. It was like something snapped. Kicking, screaming, shouting — at me, the kids, anyone and everyone. Talika, her closest friend at school, approached her with a look of concern. "Ra'Vae, why are you crying?"
    Ra'Vae kicked out a chair and howled at the top of her lungs, "GAH!!! STOP LOOKING AT ME!!!"
    I was shocked. Nothing I did would calm her down. I finally sent Ra'Vae out with a pre-k assistant, who hauled Ra'Vae down to another room as Ra'Vae screamed, "I WANT MY MAMA! I WANT MY MAMA!!!!!" the whole way down.
    Ra'Vae didn't join our class again until lunchtime. She greeted me with a smile and a "Hi teacher!" and entered the cafeteria as if nothing had happened. I marveled. How easily children could forget.
    Later that week I gave the kids their homework folders. "Mom and dad will need to help with the assignment," I said, "So make sure you show them your folder."
    Ra'Vae scrunched up her brow and murmured quietly, "My mama's in heaven."
   I stopped short mid-sentence and felt my throat begin to tighten. Ra'Vae didn't have a mama. She was killed only months ago. And daddy was in jail. Her grandma told me so, and I'd forgotten. How could I forget?
    I looked at Ra'Vae and choked out my next words, "I'm sure your grandma can help you out just fine." Ra'Vae nodded.
from September 30, 2012
   

Not a Clue

    Ron throws temper tantrums. Everyday. Screaming, crying, moaning, whining. No days off. I've talked to the mother in hopes that she'll knock some sense into the kid, but nothing has changed. She came early to pick him up on Thursday. My perspective on teaching has never been the same.
    I was wrapping up a story with the kids when the door swung open and the mother charged into the room. Or rather, her four-year-old, twin girls charged into the classroom and she followed closely behind, pleading with them to be quiet. In a matter of seconds her screaming twins turned my classroom into a scene of chaos — a domino effect across the carpet. Whining and running and screaming and slapping kids, they grabbed any and every toy, banged it for a few seconds, then tossed it to the ground before finding something else. The mother stood in the doorway and sighed
    Ron lost it completely when one of the twins slapped his homework to the ground. I pulled Ron aside and bent down to look him in the eye. I was not going to let this boy make a scene.
    "Ron, look at me so I know you're listening. LOOK AT ME." Ron looked at me. "See what you're doing right now? That's called whining. That's exactly what I've been talking about." 
    Ron yanked himself away and within 5 seconds was whining and screaming all over again. What shocked me, however, was what happened next. The mother pulled Ron aside and bent down to look him in the eye, just as I had done.
   "Ron," she said, "Ron, look at me so I know you're listening. LOOK AT ME."
    I was shocked. The mother was imitating me! What did I know about parenting? I was a teacher! I watched as the mother corrected Ryan with my same language, my same tone of voice, and my same gestures. The truth dawned on me in horrible colors. Children were not my only students.
from September 23, 2012