I’m fond of the concept of “playing God” as presented in The Cider House Rules. It’s a novel with a good old-fashioned modernist directive: someone is going to play God, someone is going to wield terrifying power like a gun or a doctor’s kit, and maybe, since you’re a reasonable person, that person ought to be you. (Thank you, John Irving.)
I joke about “playing God” as a teacher, which is one way of dealing with the knowledge that mutters in the background every day… I will say something that someone will remember forever, but what will it be? Will it be some stupid off-the-cuff sarcastic remark? Will it be, “You’re a good writer”? Will it be, “I don’t have time for you to get your act together”? Or something nastier? There’s no way to know. You talk almost all day, almost every day. And you’re only a dumb human being, distracted and annoyed sometimes like anyone else.
You have to have confidence in your decisions and your instincts, although there is often no one to offer you confirmation, or even serve as a witness. I feel lucky to work at a school where my colleagues frequently collaborate and commiserate, rather than competing or backbiting over test scores. I probably have a lot more support from my fellow teacher than most educators enjoy. You say, “Oh, that kid is driving me crazy,” or ask how the kid acts in another class or if the kid can read or do math or if the kid has something crazy going on at home. And then you should have a better grasp on what is the kid’s craziness and what is your own craziness. Maybe you’re just having a bad day.
I have a student teacher this semester, which is teaching me mostly about myself, and how I have a hard time holding any gray area of control. Either I can use the iron fist to regain control for her, delivering the Royal Bitch speech about how the class was unfocused, or I can walk out of the room and read a novel across the hall and let her fend for herself. The gray area is where I need to be sometimes: listening, encouraging, insisting. I hate that area. I’m nothing like God at all in that area. In accordance with a popular story of human origin, I am eager to resemble God.
I came in to work this morning with an unusual degree of self-doubt. I’ve been watching my student teacher building her confidence, and it reminds me how deliberately constructed my own confidence is. Today the student teacher is gone, and I’m back to doing things myself. Can I still do it? Can I do what I’ve been telling her to do all these weeks?
When I began teaching here four years ago, I thought I could do a good job. I thought, I’m an educated person, and a smart person, and passionate about the kids. I can do this. These were reasons to try, but hardly guarantees of success.
I don’t even know how to define success here. Grades are artificial, attention can be faked, knowledge can be short-term and meaningless. They suck at tests– ask them half the questions right afterward, and they’ll show more understanding. And when the kids learn and grow, it doesn’t mean it’s because of something I’ve done anything right. Abraham Lincoln learned real good, and he didn’t have a teacher in his log cabin. And children mature naturally, whether or not anyone pushed them to.
I am most encouraged by moments when my students treat me with respect. That is something I trust. It means we have an environment where people can learn, might want to learn, and might want to change and grow, regardless of the quality of my lessons, or the stupid things I might occasionally say.
The day turned out well. We had some strange moments of comfort when the kids realized their “real” teacher was back, if only for a day. There were fewer arguments than usual. My quick, vehement yanks on the discipline leash were generally acquiesced to. (The highest level of this is requesting apologies for misbehavior. I requested a couple, and I received them.) Maybe, God or human, they missed me after all.
Landing 