Emergent Things

Last week, I decided that I am a first year teacher again. Not that I am a veteran teacher or anything, but I had a realization both humbling and enlightening that reminded me of how cyclical this whole teaching gig is.

Since Day 1, I’ve been a tenth grade teacher. I’ve dabbled in ninth grade, albeit collaboratively, but I’ve always had tenth graders. However, when I started at my current school, my principal asked, “Do you feel that you can teacher ninth grade?”

Of course I can teach ninth grade, I thought. They’re only one year younger.

One year is a big difference, I've since learned.

Ironically, when I graduated college, I opted out of receiving a license to teach middle school because I always told myself that if I were at a point where I was willing to teach middle school, I should probably find another career. Last week, however, I realized that my freshmen are closer to being middle school students than they are to being in the tenth grade.This realization unsettled me. I’ve always found middle school students to be too whiny and self-centered, qualities my freshmen share. I initially figured that if I set my tenth grade bar for them, they would have to reach it. Instead, I was met with hostility and disengagement – direct disrespect, heads on tables, plunging grades, etc. It wasn’t until I completely my school's quarterly self-assessment and took an honest look at my grade book and my own practice that I realized that I was wrong, and that I had set an unrealistic expectation.

So, I changed. And, as a teacher, I've found that it's hard to change. We have our ways and like to stick by them, but at some point, we have to realize that it isn't about our comfort as much as it is about what is doing what is best for kids. I refuse to admit that I was entirely at fault, but I noticed that I was frustrated with them because I expected them to act like tenth grade students. And, well, they’re not, so of course they didn’t. It reminded me of a conversation I had  had with my former instructional coach when I was looped to English 11 during my third year of teaching. She reminded me that a new grade level requires new instructional techniques. In this case, it required more rigorous discussion and high expectations. So, I obliged.

And now, nine weeks into my second first year, I’m obliging again.

(In a semi-related twist of fate, I received a note on my board today which read, "hi mister Shaw." It was signed "ur fav student." While the grammar was atrocious, I can't help but feel it's a sign that I'm moving in the right direction with them.)

Last week, two students came up to me after class and asked why I don’t tell stories or jokes. They also mentioned that I hardly smile. While taken back by the oddity of the question (if there is such thing as odd questions when you spend your days with high school students), what struck me the most was that at my old school, I always told stories and jokes. It was a way of engaging students, connecting with them, and supplementing the curriculum.

It wasn’t until I was asked about this that I realized that I had accomplished what I set out to do when I left my teaching job three months ago. Because my old school was my first full-time teaching job, I was far more casual than I knew I was supposed to be, so I told these stories, gave insights into my life and personality, and ultimately connected with my students on a deeper level than I ever anticipated. It wasn’t until I had matured as a teacher that I realized that I had probably let them know too much about myself. When I switched schools, I decided to not make this mistake again.

My casual attitude wasn’t limited to my personality or instruction, either. In my old school, I wore rugged flannel shirts and tattered khakis, let my beard grow to my chest, and let my hair grow past my shoulders. Since beginning my new placement, I wear a tie every day, spend time fixing my hair and keeping it trimmed, and keep an overall eye on my appearance. There are slip-ups, but they are far subtler than in my past experience.

As odd as it sometimes makes me feel, these changes in my appearance have catalyzed the change in my attitude. Because I dress like a professional, I act like a professional. My students sit in rows, I stand by my door to enforce tardies seven times a day, I complete a thorough dress code check at the beginning of every period, and I call parents on a regular basis to address misbehaviors. While this may be best practice, I was negligent about it at my old school and have since decided to be better.

I oftentimes wonder if, instead, I don’t want to be that teacher because that’s the teacher I was for my old students, and I don’t want to connect with my current students as I did with my past ones. After all, it was my connection with my students that kept me from pursuing my life in Louisville for as long as I did.

Regardless the cause or consequence, I find myself a far different Mr. Shaw than I was one year ago. Even as I type this, I realize that I require my current students to call me Mr. Shaw as opposed to just Shaw. And, whether or not this works out for me, it reminds me of one of the many things that sets my craft apart from others: the ability to decide who you want to be on a year-by-year basis. For whatever reason, I don’t yet want to be myself at my new school. Despite this, however, I am certain of one thing.

I am a teacher.