Teachers "do too much." (But not the way the kids mean)

"You do too much."  Last year, this was a common phrase out of the mouths of the thirteen year old babes I tried to cajole into loving reading and writing on a daily basis.  They meant I was cracking down too frequently on them for behavior, but I would often respond, "I agree."

The work demands of a teacher are known and respected amongst friends and family members-of-educators, if not popular culture at large.  Our allies have gone on dates with us, which consist of reading a book while we grade papers.  They have been woken up early on Sunday so we can trudge down to the coffee shop and grade the stack of essays that need feedback.  They have heard our fingers flying over the keyboard at 10pm so we can have our slides created, lessons planned, and worksheets made.  This is outside the eight hours at school where we perform a hyper-intentional dance (choreographed to the minute in those afore mentioned weekend and weeknight hours) to try and convince students, in my case middle school students, that what we (and the Common Core) deem important that they know in order to be successful in Life is MORE important than what they deem important at any given moment.  No small task.

My first year of teaching, on a regular basis, I would wistfully imagine being hit by a bus on the way to school, so I could take a few days off to recoup.  I just needed those days to catch up and get some planning done.  This is my fifth year of teaching, and when I see a kid coughing, while others grab the hand sanitizer, I find myself sidling up a little closer, calculating how many papers I could grade with those 8 hours at home between feverish naps. I have wanted time off, to work more, because I haven't felt like I can finish what is expected of me during normal waking hours.

Pop education culture, however, is only interested in these realities to laud teachers who do that work, and shame those who would dare not.  We have been called lazy, our 3:15 release time (though 4:15, at my school) and our summer vacation pointed to as evidence that we hardly have to work at all. Teachers unions have been demonized for advocating for their staff.  Accountability has shifted, and it is now squarely on the shoulders of teachers when our students are unsuccessful.   Thus, we spend our time organizing their binders, giving them behavior checklists, signing off on their homework agendas to make sure they've written it down, giving them infinite opportunities to make up work, staying after school and giving up our lunch/planning periods when they goof off in class to make sure they do the work they missed, differentiating each lesson so that each child can have the kind of experience that pushes him or her to his or her full potential.  There is another argument to be made somewhere else about whether these moves ultimately help support our students be successful, but regardless, we are now expected to make these moves.  The message is clear: when our children fail, it's the teachers' fault.

And it is not just when kids fail.  They are failing, says the news. Headlines read:

"American Schools vs. the World: Expensive, Unequal, Bad at Math.  What the latest results of an international test tell us about the state of education in the United States."

"Top US students fare poorly in international PISA test scores, Shanghai tops the world, Finland slips"

"D.C. high school graduation rate ticks up, but wide achievement gaps remain."

Revising the message to the ever-inspiring: Our children ARE failing, and it's the teachers' fault.

So how, in the climate of education "crisis", do we teachers find the balance we need?  How do we take in the realities of our world and work to make them better, without killing ourselves in the process?

After all, I like my work because it feels important.  I like it because I feel like I'm contributing something valuable to the world, and doing something meaningful with my life.  If I didn't think it was significant, I don't think I could be happy doing it.

And if I'm honest with myself, I even like the feeling of working hard.   Of trotting off to coffee shops in the evening and spilling ketchup on my students' work as I grade through dinner.  Of waking up at 5:30 and heading to school to squeeze in an hour before the day begins.   Of coming up with a bomb lesson plan and executing it flawlessly, even if it took hours to create a 55 minute experience for my students.

But we, as does all the universe, expand and contract, and if we do not allow ourselves the contraction, we begin to feel the strain.  We cannot only pulse out.  And continuing to effort without the necessary periods of withdrawal have left me overstretched.  A short daily mindfulness practice is not enough for me to overcome the strain of too much work-focused energy.  I need eat without a computer in front of me, so I can talk with my roommates.  I need to run through the fall crispness, and give myself a chance to reconnect with my body.  I need to read stories about faraway places without wondering how we will analyze the text the next day.  I need to remember that parts of my life outside of school are significant too, and devote energy to them without guilt that I am not best serving my students (or our nation, for that matter).

That way, when I'm working on solving our educational crisis (by which I mean writing and deconstructing a model essay on the Roman gods on the ceiling of the Capitol for my eighth graders), I can be fully present with that experience.  Because it is important.  And the work should be done. But it's not the only thing that's important.  The moment we lose this awareness, and martyr ourselves for the good of others, we risk tailspinning into an exhausted resentfulness that ultimately serves no one.

So I will run, and cook food, and paint pictures, and meditate, and laugh with friends.  And I will stand before students, and meditate conflicts, and teach them about what I know, and show them why I love learning, and argue with my colleagues for too long about how to best serve them, and write lesson plans and make worksheets.  And sometimes I will stay up too late working, but sometimes I will not.  Sometimes I will offer to lead an evening program, and sometimes I will say I cannot. Sometimes I will make copies the night before and have my desk neatly organized, and sometimes I won't.  Finding that balance is the only way I will make it through this year.