They Just Keep Coming

When you get into this job... When you sign up, you don't want to spend the whole day yelling. You have a few heroes in your head and you want to be just like them. Mentors who helped guide you through rough parts in your life. You see yourself becoming just like them. You feel like you could really help others, really help shape the future. It's a powerful kind of feeling.

Mr. Blowsky was a young guy in the seventies. It was his first year teaching fifth grade. He had a huge pile of curriculum folders and he followed them pretty clearly. We gave him a hard time, those first months, but he had this great energy. You couldn't help but like him, he was so honest and friendly. People like that often burn up quick in this business, but I didn't know that then.

After a few months, he started working in some of his own ideas. He was fresh out of a super-liberal college out in California. He had all sorts of ideas about alternative education. We made special flash cards for math. He set up a pen pal program with another classroom in Australia. He would sometimes stop a boring history lesson to have some of the antsy kids get up and act out the lesson. They would dance around, but he could keep them on task. Everyone would laugh, but it would stick in our heads. Those memories remain some of my favorite childhood moments.

So I got involved, in time, with teaching. And, after a stint as a teacher's aide while working on my master's, eventually found a job teaching fifth grade. The school gave me all the curriculum folders, I brought along a bunch of my own books. Radical, exciting, new paths of education. Games, tricks, management techniques. That first year was really tough. Every day those kids shrieked and bickered and I did my best to keep them working. It was discipline all day. I spent alot of time yelling. In the lounge, the teachers reassured me, "The first year is always toughest".

I kept in touch with Mr. Blowsky. I sent him a letter every month or so and he'd always reply a week later. He loved hearing about my plans for my classes, different approaches to teaching certain topics. He loved reminiscing about his old classes. He was still teaching, still in the same room. That thought used to make me feel powerful, like I was lucky to be connected to something really great.

So year two and now I'm ready to try out some of these crazy techniques. I never really got a chance that first year to do any of the play acting or word games. There was a kid in that class, Gary. Gary had some serious issues. He wasn't too bright, but not otherwise very badly behaved; he just needed constant attention. I tried giving him special duties, like sweeping up or organizing the game closet. I tried isolating him. I tried incorporating him. I tried running more group activities, teaming him up with kids that might help redirect or... Yeah well, nothing really worked. In the lounge, the teachers recommended I complain to the principal, "Send him to the special needs class or something,"

I'd write about Gary in my letters to Mr. Blowsky. He'd just reply "It's okay, you'll get it. I know you will,"

I didn't want to just give up on Gary. I spent the whole year trying to work with him. He never really could keep still, never could stop harrasing everyone within reach. I spent the whole year yelling.

By year three I had a reputation among all the kids. I was the mean one. The big, shouty teacher. The kids were terrified of me. It worked well enough. I got through plenty of material those first few months. I was ahead of schedule by January and ready to try some of the new techniques. I had little costume pieces and huge namecards. We were doing some French Revolution stuff. The class was confused when I brought out the box of props. They marched around, pretending to be nobles or peasants. The kid playing Napolean... Christ I can't even remember his name. Anyway, that kid jumped up on a desk and started dancing. I was shouting at him and he fell. He didn't get hurt or anything, but I lost it. I had everyone put their heads down on their desks. We didn't get anything else done that day.

I wrote to Mr. Blowsky about that day. Again he just said, "You'll get it. It takes time,"

We didn't try any of the play acting again until April. It didn't go over too well. Another year of yelling.

The next year and the next year, it was always something. I started lying in my letters. I told Mr. Blowsky of all the fun things we'd done in my classes. I told him about all the bright, hopeful children I loved working with. In truth, I spent all my time with the awful kids. The bright, well-behaved, thoughtful, pleasant children sat neglected all day while I maintained order. That was my job, really. I was a warden.

And Mr. Blowsky's replies stung me so deep, "Ah, you see? I knew you had it in you. I knew you'd get it,"

When he was close to retirement, I drove back to my hometown to meet him. I brought a couple of sandwiches, he loves egg salad, to his classroom. I got a chance to see his last class of the day. There were no costumes or props. There were no flash cards posted to the wall. They were studying for some standardized testing, filling out booklets. He was yelling.

I threw out the sandwiches. I spent the night visiting my folks. I drove home early.

That's really the thing of it. Every year, you get a whole new bunch of kids with all sorts of problems. You hardly get a moment to help them and they move along. You spend the whole time yelling. Some people are good at this job; it's like they're built to do this work. I'm not one of them.