Go Gently

Work.  All my life, I have allowed it to define me.

As a student (even as a very young student), my work was to try to be the smartest kid in class.  Let’s face it.  I was a clumsy, homely child with thick glasses and a lazy eye.  But school, I could do.  And I did it well.  It became my “thing” —  so much so, that I decided never to leave. 

And so now, decades later, I get in my car every morning and drive 45 minutes to another school, where I pour all my energy into the young lives and minds before me.  I just want them to learn, so badly.  To light up with new words, new ideas, new ways of thinking. 

But today, I went too far.  Snow had been falling all night.  It was due to continue for hours.  School buses were cancelled.  Other teachers headed onto the streets and turned back because of the weather.  And I kept going.

That’s what I do.  I keep going.  I feel like my students depend on me for programming, continuity, and emotional support.  The other teachers depend on me to be there, so that we don’t have more staff absences than our building can handle.  And I depend on myself to be there, because without being there, I have nothing else to be.

This thinking can have some grave consequences.  I put enormous pressure on myself to be a “good” teacher.  I, like most teachers I know, spend hours every day preparing lessons, interacting with students, documenting observations, communicating with parents, organizing the learning environment, and thinking through all the details that must be in place in order for a school day to go smoothly.  I am told I do so reasonably well.  My students are happy.  Their parents are happy.  My supervisor is happy.  But I am not.  Because there are always needs we cannot meet.  Always lessons that don’t go as planned.  Always systemic failures and policies that limit our effectiveness.  Always, always, always, something.

And now, we bear this weight in the midst of a pandemic, where health and safety protocols supersede pedagogical best practice, government promises go unfulfilled, and morale is at an all-time low.  But we continue, because the work of building lives must go on.  We believe that what we do matters.  What we do keeps society running.  It perpetuates society.  We are indispensable.

But what does this messaging do to the people who are buckling under the weight of these expectations that keep mounting, and mounting, and mounting? And what does it do to people like me, whose identity is so intertwined with their work that they see their success or failure as a human being rise or plummet with their working conditions?

What it did to me this morning was put me on the freeway at 6:30 am in a snowstorm, white-knuckling it for two hours to make it to work, because I felt like I was needed.  It saw me hoping fervently that what I was in was a lane, and that what the transport truck behind me was in was different lane.  It saw me whispering hallelujahs when the truck barrelled past me, and then wondering how close I was to the ditch.  It saw me trembling as I finally stepped out of my car in the school parking lot, only to discover that after my harrowing commute, the school had just been closed for the day, and I was not needed after all.  In fact, could we all please clear the building and go home.

Tomorrow, if the powers that be deem the weather unsafe for school buses, my car will not be leaving the driveway until the roads are safe for me.  We give, and give, and give, and give, and in the end, the messaging we get is that we are only as important as the childcare we provide.  Maybe my students will be okay without me for a day.  Better that than have them mourning their teacher’s loss in an auto accident.  Maybe my colleagues will understand if I choose not to risk my life to get to school.  Maybe the teacher shortages at the system level are not my problems to solve.  Maybe society will still function, without all hands on deck.  And maybe, without a job to go to, my saviour complex will take a licking and I will learn that I have value outside of my contribution to a system that does not always value me.

I imagine that there are many of these rants floating around on the internet these days, from workers in many professions and circumstances.  Life has become intolerable for so many.  I have no platitudes to offer.  “We’re all in this together” lost its sentimental glimmer long ago.  I have nothing more to suggest, except to please be gentle, and give yourself permission to be more than what you do.