I normally write my yearly teaching blog post right before or right after school ends, but I’ve been dragging my feet this year. One of the reasons why this is the case is the need to separate myself from the year a little bit. Sometimes, I end the school year satisfied, ready for a break but looking forward to the future. Other times, I feel lost and conflicted. This year, it was the latter. I needed time to reflect on and process what was an unusual year of teaching for me. Not only did I feel like this was the first year I was an experienced teacher, capable of giving sound advice to others, but my semesters also varied wildly which left me with a feeling of whiplash rather than satisfaction. Now that I’ve had time to consider what I’ve learned this school year, allow me to share:

1. Teaching is a wild ride. I know this seems like it should be a “duh”: every day, teachers deal with students from all different backgrounds and with an endless array of personalities. Ultimately, this means day-to-day teaching is always somewhat unexpected. This year, for example, my first semester was hands-down the best semester of teaching I’ve ever had while my second semester was absolutely awful–up in the top two of worst semesters. I don’t want to go into detail on this very public blog about the things that made second semester so horrible, but I am sure you can theorize. To give you an idea, when I told people outside my profession what my day-to-day life was like that semester, they were appalled. All of this to reiterate that teachers should never walk into a classroom with expectations of what your day or semester or year is going to be like. Whatever you’re thinking it’s going to be like is probably wrong.

2. “Those kids” need you the most. I’m going to be really vulnerable here and hope other teachers don’t berate me for it: until this year, I didn’t believe that. I thought that “those kids”, the ones who misbehaved in class and didn’t do their work and cussed at me and refused to sit down, didn’t need me. If they needed me, I reasoned, they would act like it. I’ve now come to understand that many of “those kids” don’t know how to act like they need me. Acting out is the way they get my attention. Coming to me and being vulnerable and asking for help is weakness. “Those kids” don’t want to be weak. Maybe they’re dad tells them that weakness is girly. Maybe their mom is a single mom who works all the time, so they’ve never been able to ask for help before. Maybe they just don’t know they can ask for help. Whatever the reason, they often need it the most.

Let me just give one example (although, there are many). I had a student this year who I will call Jack. (That’s not his real name.) Jack was one of “those kids” and one of the worst of “those kids”. He was the type of kid no one wanted in class–and he knew it. Imagine knowing that no teacher really wanted you in their classroom? He was 14 years old, and the adult world had already written him off–myself included. Jack’s home-life was complicated, and he was on a behavior plan. Every day, he would intentionally push my buttons. A few years ago, I had a similar student whom others pushed me not to give up on. I decided that no matter how crazy Jack was going to make me, I wouldn’t give up. I had to beg and plead and call home to get him to pay attention and complete work. Then, one day, we had a break-through. He stayed after class to apologize to me. Nothing I did prompted this–except maybe being nice to him despite his antics. A few weeks later, he brought me a gift for Teacher Appreciation Week (my only student to do so). Then, one day, at the end of the semester, I sent him outside the class for something or another, got the other students started on their work, and went outside to talk to him. I asked him why he was behaving inappropriately and he said, with anger in his tone and fear in his eyes, “This class doesn’t matter. I’m not going to pass. I’m stupid.” Those last two words are not words you say in front of Mrs. Doss ever. No one is stupid in my class; you just haven’t learned enough yet to be successful. I said, “What?! Who told you that?! Jack, you are not stupid!” He looked at the ground in shame. I dragged him back inside and opened my gradebook. “Look!” I said, “You’re passing.” He had no idea. His face lit up. I told him I didn’t want to hear the words, “I’m stupid,” from his mouth again and sent him back to his seat. Jack needed me. He needed an adult to believe in him when no other adults in his life did. High school students are still kids, and they also have basic human needs like the rest of us: the desire to be understood and respected and loved.

3. There are benefits to being comfortable. This year was my first year in the same classroom as the previous year and my fifth year at my school. When I first started teaching, I was a travelling teacher. If you’ve never had that experience, let me tell you: it’s really hard. Mainly, it’s really hard because it’s challenging to stay organized, and you’re never in your own space. You have to follow the rules of other teachers because you’re in their space. This year, having my own space I’d spent the previous year learning to arrange in a way that worked for my teaching style was a huge benefit. My classroom felt like home, my procedures ran with ease, and my comfort allowed the students to relax. Furthermore, being at a school for five years means you know what to expect. I know where everything is, who to ask for what, and what to expect from different people and programs. There are very few surprises in terms of the environment, and that’s a huge benefit.

4. Once you’ve established yourself as a teacher, help the school. I have a lot more free time now than I did when I first started teaching. What used to take me 2 hours now only takes me 30 minutes. Lesson plans used to be created well into the evening; now, I sit on the couch with my husband and binge watch sitcoms at night. This also means I have more time to join committees at school. I know some teachers will say that free time is their own time, we don’t get paid any more for being on committees, someone else will volunteer to run that thing, etc. I suppose those are all valid; however, if you don’t take ownership of your school, you shouldn’t get to complain about the things that don’t get done or the way its run or the things you think should be in place. The principal of my school, at the beginning of one year, urged, “If not you, then who?” This simple phrase has really stuck with me. When I find myself annoyed that no one has done X, Y, or Z, sometimes that phrase will pop into my head, and I’ll try to find a way to do X, Y, or Z. I’m not saying I’m perfect and can change my school into some kind of utopia, but I can try. We can all try to help our schools become better places.

5. Saying goodbye to co-workers is really hard. Between the amount of people retiring, switching to middle school education, going to graduate school, or moving elsewhere, my school lost a lot of staff at the end of this year–a lot of really good staff. In general, I’m a really sentimental person, so goodbyes make me mushy and teary and really sad. I’m happy for my co-workers who are moving on to bigger and better things, but I am also sad for the school and sad for the students and sad for me. Many of these people have become my friends over the past five years, and they were there for me to help me learn the school, give advice, support my classroom, and love me when I had bad days. If you told me at the start of my career that I’d be sad about co-workers leaving, that I’d miss them fiercely, I’d laugh at you. I know now that this career is different from others. A school is a family: we fight for students together, we deal with insane ups-and-downs together, we march for rights of teachers across our state together, we go out on Fridays after school and laugh together; we host baby showers and wedding showers and retirement parties; we work together even when we disagree. What’s more like a family than that?

To my Sanderson family who’s made my first five years pretty great: stay classy. To those who are leaving my family: you’ll always be a Spartan, and I’ll miss you.

–M