What I Didn't Learn In College

I spent a lot of time in college taking notes and preparing for the day that I would enter my own classroom. Yet when I began my first year, I felt as if nothing I learned really even mattered. I regretted losing so many hours of my life trying to stay awake while my professors went on and on about all the various theories of education. If only someone had taken me aside and told me what really matters, maybe that first year would have been a lot easier . . .

When I Was Your Age . . .

I remember my father's speeches of when he was my age he walked three miles to school without any shoes on. My sisters and I would roll our eyes because we knew that we were in for another story meant to teach us a lesson. (We would later beat up the sister who complained about something, which forced him to start the lecture in the first place.)

So in honor of my father, here is my story:

I was nine years old when I decided that I wanted to become a teacher. I remember the day clearly. I was sitting in Mrs. Beaudoin’s third grade classroom when one of the children asked her how long she had taught. She looked at all of us with a twinkle in her eye and said, “I have been teaching for a thousand years, and my dears, I will teach until the day I die.” Listening to my parents complain daily about their jobs, I couldn’t imagine that a career could actually make someone so happy. I wanted Mrs. Beaudoin’s enthusiasm. I had to become a teacher.

Once I discovered that I was destined to become a teacher, I started watching my teachers closely to add strategies to my teaching “toolbox”. I remember playing school with my younger sister so that I could practice doing what I had seen my teachers doing that day. By the time I entered my first classroom, I thought I was fully prepared to be a successful educator. Boy, was I wrong! I was given a class of 28 kindergartners my first year. Many of them did not speak English and only received push-in help for 30 minutes a day. That meant that I had to struggle to try to get them to understand me for the remaining six hours each day. I did not have a para, supportive parents or even a mentor in the building. By the end of the first week, I had already exhausted every tool in my "toolbox" and I had no idea how I was going to survive the year. I was afraid that if I asked for help, people would think I was a horrible teacher.  

I really think that I should have bought stock in Kleenex that year. I stayed extremely late every afternoon, often even bringing my dinner to eat while I worked. As soon as I left I spent my car rides home on the phone crying to my mother. I was sure I picked the wrong profession and I was so upset that after dreaming of becoming a teacher for so long, I was ready to throw it all down the drain. Everyday my mother told me that I needed to stick with it. I'm not sure if it was because she was worried that she just spent thousands of dollars on my college education for nothing or if she really did believe in me. Either way, I'm glad I had her pushing me. 

Since I'm still teaching 12 years later, I guess you can figure out that I didn't give up. My second year I realized that teaching is not a profession that you can handle on your own. I actively sought help from the reading coach, district specialists and seasoned teachers. I was able to save money by not having to buy so many tissues and not calling my mother long-distance and I was able to enjoy my dinners at home. 

I hope, unlike my father's stories, that my lesson is clear. The first year of teaching stinks. I'm not trying to scare you, but it's the reality. The good news is, you can make it better. Don't hide in your classroom and pray that you'll make it through it. Actively seek help and accept it when it is offered. I survived and you can too!