Whooops, part deux (REVENGE)
incidentally:
this is the notice i got about my now-infamous obs:
"This week you will be observed by the Principal, Miss [redacted] and I."
Way to go, Grammar Boy!
The recent hiring good fortune of my significant other, who has followed his dream of writing about music doggedly, has made me wonder about my own psyche. Last year at this time, I thought I was on the brink of becoming a young, left-wing journo sensation. After a fracas involving my University Prez, my writing got, like, even more exposure that AGW! gets it now (self-deprecating wink). The obstacle to fulfilling my dream was my deep-seated discomfort of the idea of 1) working without a real salary and 2) on some level, what I perceived as selfishness of pursuing that career, which was not really selfishness but 3) the fear of exposing my most treasured talent and enjoyed activity to the harsh criticism of the real world.
And so here I am, unsatisfactory and unsatisfied. The kinds of validation I used to get were fan emails from readers of the campus rag, grad students marvelling at my prose (but chastising me for those typos), and the infinite satisfaction of putting the closing phrase on a piece of my writing, a piece of me.
Now, my validation comes in the form of a student peeking his head around the door and making me guess who he is, the smiles of the students --mostly immigrants who suffer daily at my school--whom I praised tonight in front of their parents, reading my students' lovely autobiographies of characters we read (even though they were not time-managed properly) and making at least one true, genuine friend and several other warm connections. But wonderful as it all is, I remain restless. I need something more--official. If one administrator would say to me "yeah, you need a lot of work, but we're so glad to have you here and we value you" all my thoughts of quitting just might waver. But instead it's "it will get better next year" as if my being there next year is this given. I just wish I felt as needed as I know I am. But "enough, no more," as Orisno would say. The hardest part of my year is over. I don't know it, but I will it.
Peace to the homies, the lovers, the friends.
this is the notice i got about my now-infamous obs:
"This week you will be observed by the Principal, Miss [redacted] and I."
Way to go, Grammar Boy!
The recent hiring good fortune of my significant other, who has followed his dream of writing about music doggedly, has made me wonder about my own psyche. Last year at this time, I thought I was on the brink of becoming a young, left-wing journo sensation. After a fracas involving my University Prez, my writing got, like, even more exposure that AGW! gets it now (self-deprecating wink). The obstacle to fulfilling my dream was my deep-seated discomfort of the idea of 1) working without a real salary and 2) on some level, what I perceived as selfishness of pursuing that career, which was not really selfishness but 3) the fear of exposing my most treasured talent and enjoyed activity to the harsh criticism of the real world.
And so here I am, unsatisfactory and unsatisfied. The kinds of validation I used to get were fan emails from readers of the campus rag, grad students marvelling at my prose (but chastising me for those typos), and the infinite satisfaction of putting the closing phrase on a piece of my writing, a piece of me.
Now, my validation comes in the form of a student peeking his head around the door and making me guess who he is, the smiles of the students --mostly immigrants who suffer daily at my school--whom I praised tonight in front of their parents, reading my students' lovely autobiographies of characters we read (even though they were not time-managed properly) and making at least one true, genuine friend and several other warm connections. But wonderful as it all is, I remain restless. I need something more--official. If one administrator would say to me "yeah, you need a lot of work, but we're so glad to have you here and we value you" all my thoughts of quitting just might waver. But instead it's "it will get better next year" as if my being there next year is this given. I just wish I felt as needed as I know I am. But "enough, no more," as Orisno would say. The hardest part of my year is over. I don't know it, but I will it.
Peace to the homies, the lovers, the friends.
Labels: Teaching from the trenches
posted by SarahMarian at 7:22 PM
2 Comments:
FU-CK the petty bureaucratic idiots who lash out with meaningless authority over the only people who are actually trying to make those kids' lives better. and with such shoddy grammar, too. history will not smile on [redacted], and they will make great villains in an upcoming series of bestselling literary memoirs.
this is a lovely post, and obviously the work of a brilliant writer whose genius is too bright to be held back by people as mediocre as [redacted] and [redacted].
It does get better the 2nd year. My first year was only slightly less hellish than my student teaching year (I didn't cry a lot) and this year has been much, much better... who knows what it will be like in year 3. Personally, I stick around just to see what will happen next.
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