I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I understand that others aren't always so quick to open up, especially at the word hello. Sometimes it's just difficult to make a connection with others. When you think about it, life is all about connections. We have connecting flights; we often connect the dots between things. We experience bad connections on our phones, computers, etc. We attempt to "get connected" through social media (although I may argue those aren't always real connections, but that's a topic for another blog). I've seen people hired or achieve things because of the connections they have. Life is about making connections, and as I prepare to head back into the classroom on Monday, I am reminded of this idea, the connections I have, and the ones I hopefully will be fortunate enough to make this school year.
People often ask me why I teach. The simple answer--connections. I enjoy the relationships I can make with people. I love the fist bump from the student who initiates that as he walks into my classroom. I love when a student emails me an article that has to do with something we are discussing in class. I even have learned to appreciate the high five from the teacher across the hall once he learned to lower his hand to my height level. I am inspired by learning new things from my students--words that never would have been in my vocabulary, emojis that I never would have used (Okay, poor example. I rarely use emojis). I love sharing ideas with my colleagues. And I love re-connections--those moments in life when that failed connection picks back up again. Recently, one of my former students told me that he doesn't ever say goodbye in life. "It's a small world, and you never know when people will pop back up," he wrote to me. That really resonated with me; today I want to tell you about some of those reconnections and how small the world of no goodbyes really is.
Two years ago, I was on the dance floor at my husband's cousin's wedding at the Homestead. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a young man with a smile on his face. "Mrs. Pace?" he asked. I stumbled through the rolodex of student names in the back of my head to remember his.
"Davis?" I asked. He beamed, proud that I had remembered his name. I beamed, proud I located the correct rolodex file. I had taught this young man over 15 years ago. I remembered he played baseball at Mills Godwin High School. He remembered I played music in my class to teach grammar. I was so glad to have made the reconnection.
I always tell students that the hardest thing about being a teacher is knowing I might not ever see my students again once they graduate. So, coincidental reconnections always make me happy. In 2007, my daughter Katie was born at St. Mary's Hospital. After her birth, the nurse in the operating room pulled down her mask. "Hi Mrs. Pace," she said. Kathleen. Kathleen was a student I taught many years prior, another appearance of a student recurring in my life.Last week, I led a professional development session and was walking around answering questions and getting to know the teachers in the room. I came to a table of three teachers, and one of them looked at me and said, "You were my English teacher in 1999." Caitlin. What a fortunate reconnection, especially knowing that a former student became an English teacher.
And then there's Kyle. When I taught him, Kyle was disrespectful in class. He put up a big front, rarely letting me or anyone else in. Several years ago, I had a knock on my classroom door--Kyle. The image of the boy I had remembered was replaced by a young man in a military uniform. He started by telling me that he returned to apologize for the way he acted in my class and that he appreciated what I did for him as his teacher. This was certainly a reconnection I will never forget. And maybe that former student was right in never saying goodbye; life has a way of enabling us to connect with the people we need when we need them most.
Last year, was the first time in my teaching career I questioned why I taught. It was an unsettling feeling. I had never felt this way before; teaching had been my dream job since I was playing school in my basement as a seven year-old. It is my passion, and somehow, I saw that passion slipping through my fingers. Don't get me wrong. I have had plenty of bad days in the classroom. My colleagues in my first year of teaching certainly can attest to plenty of my tears of frustration. More recent colleagues have also witnessed the tears. Yet, this feeling was different. I never questioned why I had taught before. I was overwhelmed by the expectations of this profession in a way I had never experienced. I felt suffocated; I was drowning. You know when you’re swimming underwater and you open your eyes and can see the surface of the water, barely out of reach? You push off the bottom of the pool floor and dive up to the top, resurfacing as the water splashes across your face? I couldn’t even see the water’s surface. I kept sinking deeper and deeper to the bottom of the pool, being sucked down by the drain I was petrified of as a little kid. So, I did the only thing I knew to do--I put a smile on my face and kept teaching. I decided not to let anyone know the uncertainty I was feeling.
I went through a good portion of last year feeling that way. It’s been the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I was making an impact. I wrote college recommendation after recommendation (almost 50 to be exact), I served on countless committees, I edited college essays, I graded more papers than I want to think about, but I didn’t feel like any of it mattered anymore. Why did I feel this way? I had stopped making connections. I began to let the hard parts of this job consume me. I existed on this island that was purely my own self-pity. I didn't let anyone in, and once I finally did, it was almost too late.
I somehow finally turned to a colleague for help. She perhaps found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she didn't avoid me or ignore me. She listened. She connected with me. And what she helped me to notice is the importance of making connections. To that one colleague who got me to see again why I love my job--I can't thank you enough. Because of you, I started to talk to other colleagues more, and I started to pay attention to my students--really pay attention to them. And my attitude transformed entirely.
About halfway through last year I made a conscious effort to really connect with the people who spent time in four classes in my room over the past four years. I watched my students--students I had taught since they were freshmen--grow into kind human beings. Through their words and actions, they showed me what matters in life--and taught me that I matter. What they accomplished last year to me was awe inspiring, and it didn't center around a grade or a test score. It centered around being better people than they were the day before. By the end of the year, I didn't want my students to leave room 211. I considered barricading the door, but I thought most of them would easily get past my five foot one self. I considered failing all of them, but I try not to let failure be an option in my classroom. So, I said goodbye--a goodbye that was not easy nor pretty. They came to my house for breakfast on graduation day.
Some of them sent me pictures of themselves before they headed to college. Some of those pictures were really sad ones like the dog on top of packed clothes or a packed trunk with the caption to mimic an earlier blog of mine: "A Comforter, Shampoo, and a Whole Lot of Stuff."
I even got a video of a college dorm room all set up and another of one of my students studying. While I will miss these students not being a part of room 211, I know I will always have the ability to make connections. And it was these connections with students that resurrected my love for teaching.
I somehow finally turned to a colleague for help. She perhaps found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she didn't avoid me or ignore me. She listened. She connected with me. And what she helped me to notice is the importance of making connections. To that one colleague who got me to see again why I love my job--I can't thank you enough. Because of you, I started to talk to other colleagues more, and I started to pay attention to my students--really pay attention to them. And my attitude transformed entirely.
About halfway through last year I made a conscious effort to really connect with the people who spent time in four classes in my room over the past four years. I watched my students--students I had taught since they were freshmen--grow into kind human beings. Through their words and actions, they showed me what matters in life--and taught me that I matter. What they accomplished last year to me was awe inspiring, and it didn't center around a grade or a test score. It centered around being better people than they were the day before. By the end of the year, I didn't want my students to leave room 211. I considered barricading the door, but I thought most of them would easily get past my five foot one self. I considered failing all of them, but I try not to let failure be an option in my classroom. So, I said goodbye--a goodbye that was not easy nor pretty. They came to my house for breakfast on graduation day.
Some of them sent me pictures of themselves before they headed to college. Some of those pictures were really sad ones like the dog on top of packed clothes or a packed trunk with the caption to mimic an earlier blog of mine: "A Comforter, Shampoo, and a Whole Lot of Stuff."
I even got a video of a college dorm room all set up and another of one of my students studying. While I will miss these students not being a part of room 211, I know I will always have the ability to make connections. And it was these connections with students that resurrected my love for teaching.
Yet, it wasn't just the students who enabled me to find the joy of this profession. My colleagues did as well. I remember the first time I heard the term "Raider Nation." It was at the opening faculty meeting when I first came to Atlee. I never had heard a school referenced as a "nation" before and found that an interesting choice of words. Yet, that's the perfect word for all of you. As a faculty, we are one nation--one group of people who make connections with 14-18 year-olds on a daily basis. We connect with their frustrations, their struggles, their work ethics or lack thereof, their affection for their iPhones, their fidget spinners and water bottle flips (Yes, that was so last year. I'm sure there's some new thing that awaits our rooms this year). We are compassionate about our subjects but even more compassionate about each other and our students. We take care of one another. We are connected in a way that no one else can deny. We are the Raider Nation.
Every time I feel like I want to give up on teaching I will remember Davis. Kathleen.
Caitlin. Kyle. I will remember the connections I am able to make in room 211. I will remember my students from last year--the ones who I almost missed out on because of my lackluster attitude for a few months when I was busy questioning why I teach. I will remember that one particular colleague who listened to me unconditionally to show me the impact connections can have. I will remember my colleagues of the Raider Nation.
I head back to the Raider Nation on Monday. I won't wish the days away this year. I won't be hoping June can't come fast enough--even on the hard days. (Please remind me of this statement if I start to complain or grow frustrated or overwhelmed). It's not always easy to return to school after a restful summer of freedom and pool-side reading, especially one that is directly preceeded by a trip to the beach.
Yet, this year, I have a different attitude because of the connections I know I can make. This year I return to school proud to be a teacher and a part of the Raider Nation. This year more than ever, I begin with a renewed sense of optimism, ready for the 149 students I will teach in year 19. Realistically I know every lesson will not be perfect. Realistically I know every student will not be engaged in every word I have to say. Yet, I know if I work hard enough, I can make the same connections I have made with past students--those from nineteen years ago and others from this past year.
So, as I make my way down Cool Spring Road and turn onto Atlee Station on Monday morning, I will think about former students and my colleagues and how they helped me see the potential to make connections in something that to me is not just a job or even a profession but a passion. While I didn't realize it at first, you had me at hello.
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