One small good thing

According to several major studies on first year teachers, the period between October and Christmas break is referred to as the “Disillusionment Phase.” This is when first year teachers are worn out and stressed out, and start to feel like failures. This is when that big beautiful vision of inspiring children and making a difference pops, leaving nothing but little pieces of drooly rubber to pick up off the floor.

TFA prepared us for this back in July. They gave us all the research, showed us emails written by former corps members admitting deep depression and a general feeling that they hated life. “Everyone goes through this. It gets better. Reach out for help if you need it.”

The month of October was supposedly the worst. It loomed for a long time, came, and then went. Looking at it from the other side, I guess I can say I survived it ok. I also somehow thought that when the month of October was over, things would magically get better. They didn’t. I’m still feeling the November blues.

I am incredibly fortunate in that I love my kids, and I don’t have any major behavior problems. Thinking of their faces is what makes me get out of bed at 5:30 every day. The part that’s most difficult to get through is feeling overwhelmed, and overworked, and underprepared, all the time.

Also, no one recognizes how hard you are working. I think there’s this selfish part of me that wants to get some credit for how much I work every day. I don’t get paid any extra for the many days I come into school at 6:30am and leave at 5:30pm. In fact, I don’t even think my principal, or anyone else really notices. My kids don’t notice or care how much time I spend grading their papers, or making lesson plans, or cleaning up the room after they leave—or how much of my own precious little money I spend buying them pencils and paper and poster board that they chew up or bend or break in 5 seconds.

Yet even as I complain about this, I also know I never thought about what my teachers did once I left their class. We think about the small lives we live and the spaces we inhabit. When we leave them, we think everybody else does too.

Some days, I feel full of gratitude for the opportunity I’ve been given. How lucky I am, I think, that I get to spend my day helping kids learn about reading and writing. How lucky to be able to be creative and moving around, helping kids all day long instead of stuck behind a desk inside an office. And some days I feel so incredibly in love with my children that I feel like there is nowhere else I could be and nothing else I could be doing that would be as important as this.

But then other days I feel hollow and tired and sad. I never realized how hard it is to give and give and give of yourself all day long, every single day. Sometimes I just feel used up. And my kids are failing and I am a bad teacher. On these days I want to crawl in my bed, sleep for a long, long time, and dream of a time in my life when I was good at something.
Teaching, and I suppose life in general, is made up of highs and lows like this. Sometimes we feel full of purpose, other times, full of failure.

Then there are other days that are different altogether— days when you learn about something terrible—and life feels broken and wrong. One of those days happened to me last week.

Lenny* is probably my smartest, most hard-working student. She and her family moved to the United States about 3 years ago from Vietnam, and, like many other families that live near my school, they are refugees. She came to us about a month after school had started, so at first she didn’t have any friends. When I saw her walking by herself during recess, I went over to her and we started talking. Lenny has 3 younger sisters and a younger brother. Both of her parents work, so she spends much of her time taking care of her younger siblings. She cooks and cleans and does laundry. She translates for her family when they need it, helps her younger sisters with their homework. And then she reads.

Lenny is my only student who I can say absolutely loves to read. When the bell rings, and other students are talking, waiting for their buses, Lenny is reading a book. She goes through about 3 books a week. She is quiet and sweet, and works incredibly hard at everything she does. In some ways, she reminds me of myself at her age.

About two weeks ago, I watched Lenny get up from her desk and walk to the computer. “Hmm, it looks like she has a limp,” I thought. She walked slowly, almost dragging one leg behind the other.

I’d also sort of noticed, in the way that you notice things without really thinking about them, that Lenny wore the same blue hoodie every day and that she always seemed to have her hands in her pockets.

Needless to say, I was not prepared when one of the guidance counselors at my school pointed to Lenny and asked, “Is that girl pregnant?”

My first thought was, “That’s absolutely ridiculous. There’s no way.”

But then I took a good look at Lenny walking around the track. And I noticed her stomach, pushing against her hoodie, and the slow careful way that she walked.

And then my heart started racing and my stomach felt sick because I knew—in the way that you know things sometimes, because truth, terrible or not, hits you over the head like a frying pan—that my shy, quiet, 12 year old child/student was not pregnant because she had a boyfriend.

We sent Lenny to the school nurse that afternoon. At first, the nurse just shook her head sadly and said, “It’s confidential,” but about 3 days later she confirmed that Lenny is in fact 12 years old and 5 months pregnant. Now all of us can’t believe we were so oblivious. But then again, I teach 11 and 12 year old 6th graders. I am not looking for my students to be pregnant.
I hope and pray that the nurse, counselors, and social workers are investigating the family situation. As a teacher, I am not allowed to ask questions about it.

In a situation like this, my own whining and self-pity seems very pitiful indeed. There is absolutely nothing in my life that I should complain about. Everything that I have is a gift, deserved or not. And my sweet Lenny, who deserves everything in this world that is good, has so little.

Last Thursday, when I saw Lenny walking down the hallway to my class, I wanted to cry. I think she knows now that we know too. Her usual smile was replaced by eyes turned to the floor. I felt her sadness and shame as she walked in the classroom, and I thought for a moment that this was unbearable. There was nothing I could do. Class went on like normal, and I tried to avoid looking at Lenny for too long.

But then, like always, after the bell rang, Lenny pulled out her book. I noticed that she was almost finished.

“Lenny, you’re almost done with your book. Do you want to get another one to take home for when you finish that one?”

She nodded and we walked over to the bookshelf. She browsed through the different titles for a minute, and then I got an idea.

“Lenny, you should read Ella Enchanted. I LOVED it when I was younger. It’s about a princess named Ella. It’s kind of like the story Cinderella. Have you ever heard of that? Your little sisters will love this too. Maybe you can read it to them!”

For the first time in 3 days, I saw Lenny smile big, and I felt a small ounce of hope.

Maybe there was nothing I could do to really change Lenny’s situation, nothing I could do to take back all that had happened to her, and all that was to come. But I could give Lenny a book that would bring her joy.

And some days, one small good thing is enough.