If You're Not Crying, You're Not Doing It Right

Today, as I waited for the only adult bathroom in the entire building to be free, I overheard third grade teachers in a nearby classroom coming out of a meeting.  One of the teachers, a recent college graduate and rookie to the profession, held a tissue held up to her eyes as she exclaimed, "It's just so overwhelming!"

I leaned over and said, "You know, if you're not crying your first year, you're probably not doing it right."

The other teachers nodded but contrasted our school to their past experiences: "It's a lot harder here than where I was."  To clarify, they did not mean that teaching elsewhere is easier than teaching at our school.  I know plenty of teachers who deal with a lot more difficult situations than I do on a daily basis.  What becomes overwhelming is our school's schizophrenic approach to excellence.  It wants to be an academic powerhouse.  It wants to be a haven of the arts.  It wants to keep things snappy in class, but improve attention span and study skills.  It wants to be a pilot school for various programs.  It wants every child to be culturally literate and engineering-minded and socially adept.  It wants to be the best at everything.  But an organization run by people can't escape one basic human flaw: we simply don't have the time and energy to be good at everything.

Hours later, I thought over my reaction to this woman's tears.  I didn't really cry my first year at all.  Not because it wasn't hard, but because I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I didn't even have the energy or the emotional awareness to cry.  I hated it.  It hated me.  It was one of the less wonderful years of my life.

Since then, teaching has become easier, but it has never become easy.  In the last week, I have spent 64 hours at work and 10 or so hours at home doing school things.  I have been overwhelmed and exhausted.  I have not gotten enough sleep.  I have left my house dirty and belongings scattered.  And I have done it all in the name of getting school things done and doing them well.

It is times like these, though, that make me wonder if we teachers aren't doing a disservice to ourselves by giving our one hundred percent.  Is it really a good thing to have a harder job than someone else?

Non-teacher: Yeah, I wish I had three months off.
Teacher: It's really only two months, and I don't get paid for them.
Non-teacher: Not counting winter break, thanksgiving break, and all the other breaks.
Teacher: Don't worry, I make up for all of that by being at work 10+ hours every day during the year.
Non-teacher: There are plenty of people that work 50+ hours a week.
Teacher: Pretty sure they get paid more than me.

The problem--aside from the fact that there are plenty of people who work longer hours at shittier jobs and get paid less than me--is that winning the "whose life is harder" argument means that I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of myself or meeting my own personal needs.  Yes, children are important.  Yes, they are our future.  Yes, there are some that have nobody else.  But if I burn myself out, they won't have me either.

So, I challenge my fellow teachers out there: don't let your job be the hardest.  Even if it means that somebody doesn't get an email back immediately or your stations aren't perfect or you make something up to fill the last twenty minutes of class.

In education school, my professors regularly reminded us of the oft-quoted phrase: "Students may not remember what you taught them, but they'll remember how you made them feel."  In twenty years, when you look back on your teaching career, what will you remember about how you made you feel?