Generation Next
Teachers face barrage of questions . . .before the first bell even rings
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RORY HUGHES Age: 28 Hometown: Flint Education: Bachelor’s degree from the University of Tennessee, master’s degree and teaching certification from the University of Michigan Assignment: English teacher, Lee M. Thurston High School, Redford Quote: “The most challenging part of my job is battling the three-headed monster of planning, teaching and grading. One inevitably gets neglected. The most rewarding aspect of my job is when I reach a kid who is supposedly unreachable.” |
A fellow teacher recently told me that whenever he is forced to defend his profession, his stock response is: “I answer more questions in one day than you do in an entire month.”
No kidding.
When do we get our tests back, Mr. Hughes? When will grades be updated? Borrow a pencil? Sign this permission slip? Call my dad and explain my D minus? Why don’t your socks match? Why is your hair messed up? Borrow your book? Turn in my assignment late? Have some help with my essay at lunch? Open the window? Close the window?
What does “infer” mean and why is it on the board? See the Pistons game last night? Free day today? Why do you look so sad on Mondays? Who was in that fight at lunch yesterday? Can I have a mint? Why do you think my dad won’t talk to me?
This barrage comes before the bell even rings and excludes questions from colleagues (Can you believe we have another meeting today?), administrators (Mind if I sit in on your class?), parents (Can you explain why my daughter has a 54 percent when she had an 85 percent last week?), and, of course, me (Why did I decide to be a teacher?).
Monday my class resembles the Jerry Springer show—inappropriate comments and accusations being tossed around like chairs, absolutely nothing productive happening. Mr. Hughes, why can’t you control your class?
Tuesday it’s a Puritan schoolhouse— sheepish kids buried in books, terrified to meet eyes with the fed-up, frazzled headmaster at the front of the room. May I please pick up my pencil off the floor?
Wednesday they’re laughing and discussing the poetry of Langston Hughes, having fun and actually learning something. Why don’t we do more group work?
Thursday the room is silent, save the lone voice of a 15-year-old girl who fights tears as she shares how she is dealing with her father’s sudden death. Do you have any tissues?
And Friday is one of those magical, dreamlike days, when the kids are so engaged in the lesson on Chapter 8 that they’re actually disappointed when the bell rings a millisecond after they finally understand why Gatsby’s demise is inevitable. Why didn’t you tell us this book was so good?
Like many new teachers, I had overlooked the non-romanticized responsibilities of teaching, including but not limited to: planning (Must every good lesson start with a better plan?), assessment (I wrote that assignment, now I have to grade it?) and pseudo-parenting 150 children. (Did I remember to ask Lisa how her mom’s chemo is going?)
But my success as a teacher depends on my answer to the most common, most haunting, and most important question from students: Why should I care? Why should I pry my head off this desk and listen to what you have to say, Mr. Hughes? How will reading Langston Hughes’ “Dream Variation” pay my bills? What does Gatsby’s extravagant party have to do with me?
This gets easier, right?