Teaching-wise, there are many tough times. More than I ever faced in my corporate life. The one sort of time I am afflicted with right now is the end of the semester. Campus life dies. No more kids showing up in my office or my email (well, a few in email, more on that in a moment). Uncertainty as to whether I truly helped my students.

You never know what you’ve done, really. Sometimes you get to hear a success story, but you can’t, no matter what the student says, or when they say it, take credit for it. I do get email thanking me for the semester, of course, and recently received an email from a former student remarking that another teacher took them for an English major because they wrote so well (to which the student credited me, but again, see above as disclaimer). I say all this partly because, as is properly noted, students more or less deserve the credit for what they accomplish, and the best we as teachers can do is not get in the way. 

A former student of mine who sought me out again shared his thoughts with me regarding how depressing the end of a semester was, because, well, for the moment things were over. In a different way, he shared much of my feelings. That said, I worry about him.

So there are none, and yet they are always there.

Possibly one of the strangest experiences I have in terms of teaching is finding myself quoted back to myself by a student, whether it be in conversation or in a paper. It is the polar opposite of what also often happens (particularly as concerns more technical matters), where students fail to remember something I’ve said multiple times.

But when they repeat something back to me that I’ve said, and it’s clear they understand it, and seem to believe it… it’s overwhelming. Because it’s another reminder that I have to be at my best as a teacher, and that what I say can and often does stick. I have students quote back to me comments on their papers from a year ago, comments that I could not recall verbatim (or really at all).

In an unrelated note, had a student keep me 40 or so minutes after class today, just because he wanted to keep talking to me about education. He apologized for keeping me. Did I have a headache (not his fault) and want to get home? Yes. Did I regard that time ill-spent? Not in the least. Because that kind of interest, again, is the greatest gift a teacher can receive. It’s pretty much the crack of teaching, if I’ve not said it before, even if it is simultaneously exhausting.

I have a former student who still comes to see me during my office hours even though he is no longer, technically, my student. He is a sharp kid, one who is likely to end up as a professor himself. He also happens to be very lonely, and, in all likelihood, based on things he has said, I count as one of his few friends.

Why this makes me angry has nothing to do with this particular student. He is, (yes, I mean this) like every student of mine (former and present), a gift. But what makes me angry is that in all the recent word-pitching over teachers, our unions, the role we play in society, what somehow is conveniently forgotten are the roles we frequently play outside the classroom. I don’t know what effect I am having on this student. I hope it is salutary. But I do know that he is counting on me to be there when he needs me, and even though he is no longer directly connected to my employ as he once was, I am going to be there for him regardless. And I know a lot of teachers who have the same attitude. 

We are the caretakers, for better or worse, of the next generation. And the best of us (which are legion) show up and provide more than just an education for our students. We are often, aside from clergy and other such persons, the only resource, even though it is not part of our job description, that many young people have to try to find their way in this world. I don’t expect to be made rich by occupying this role—but on behalf of myself and my fellow teachers, I do hope that someday, all of the work we do that does not fit into conventional classroom time is recognized, if only in the fact that it exists.

This semester, I once again have a talky class and a quiet class. I have, however, had more correspondence via email from the quiet class vs. the talky class. Thus I must conclude, and truly come to accept, that even though both classes differ in terms of experience/style, that there is the possibility that education may actually be happening.

And don’t get me wrong, I very much like both classes, it’s just that during lecture, the quiet class, as ever, literally feels like, as Bob Dylan once said, dragging a dead pony through a forest.

It is inevitable that any time I teach more than one class in a given semester, I will have one class that is extremely verbally engaged and another at the opposite pole, as in, largely silent. I have no idea why this is, especially when I am often teaching the same material to both. And I always expect to receive poor course evaluations from the silent class. Except, the thing is, I don’t. In fact, they are often higher than those from the talky class. Nevertheless, I am always paranoid that I’m doing it wrong whenever I’m in front of the quiet class. That there’s something I should be doing differently.

Time to stop musing. Must prep for talky class.

Most people who know me are well aware I am typically critical, cynical, misanthropic, sarcastic, irreverent, and any other number of things (including snarky) in general, and particularly so when it comes to a romantic notion like having “a calling.”

Well folks, the big reveal: I have finally accepted that teaching is my calling. And I’m not even taking credit for it. It’s like I was engineered to do this. If the folks at Intel designed a new chip called “teacher,” we’d probably function nearly identically (the thought of which doesn’t bode well for job security, admittedly).

This is what I was meant to do, however one takes that phrase. And I feel guilty whenever anyone else talks about hating their job, because, well, I can raise a few complaints of my own, sure, but it is so very self-evident, even if I try to hide it, that this is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I can’t imagine life without it.

Yesterday was completely insane. I can’t even recall it all (thankfully). We have the students I walked back and forth from my office to my classroom (minor). We have the student who said, at the end of class, “I hope you don’t die, for our sake.” We have the conference at which a student, after completing our discussion of his paper for my class, asked me to review a paper for another class he’s taking. We have the conference at which a student, as per the title of this post, compared me to Jesus, proposed (jokingly) that he can see my halo. Then went on to call me an inspiration and suggest to me that he thought I was approximately ten years younger than I am, and also imply I may have influenced his future career choice.

We also have the teaching moment at which I asked for the one thing that was relevant to a particular aspect of the story we were discussing. My students proceeded to give me five before we got to the one I was looking for. I literally counted upwards saying things like, “ok, there’s two things… ok, you’re right, there’s three…”

And again, they’re terribly kind to each other. From starting discussions on their own to picking up a pen for someone who’s dropped one and locating for another a PDA that apparently dove from a student’s desk to under mine.

My kids are, truly, out of this world. I could not possibly be more humbled by yesterday than any other time in my life.

So today’s class was…. where do I begin?

Here’s me, approaching the door to my classroom. Here’s me, hearing a panoply of voices coming from said room. I pause, thinking that maybe another class is going on. No, it turns out my students were already conducting their own class discussion of the reading. They were teaching each other. And kept doing so until I actually started class, which I almost felt bad about doing.

This sort of thing does not normally happen.

I also jokingly offered them a class “field trip” to help them find my campus mailbox. End of class arrives, I’ve forgotten all about it, but a student asks me about the field trip. So I say, “sure,” not expecting many students to take me up on it.

Most did.

More than one took the opportunity, during the walk, to talk to me.

They also seem to have a ridiculous amount of knowledge, collectively.

I am so in over my head. And so damn lucky at the same time.

Today was a panic attack day. I went looking for my lecture notes and couldn’t find them. Thus, in a fine frenzy, I made new ones when I realized I had a choice between spending more time searching for them and, well, making new ones. I think I captured the core of what I had, though some of it only came back to me mid-lecture. And, as ever, I have no idea whether it made any difference in terms of what my students got out of the class (or didn’t). I do know I got points for personally knowing the professor who wrote the intro to the book we’ve started. I guess that’s something.

Ok, I should add that several students came up after class to individually share comments in relation to the reading. I really am lucky with this group. And constantly on my toes. This is going to be an exhausting (and rewarding) semester.

Yes, that adds up to 298%. I’m not a math teacher, but I can work those numbers out and realize they make me sound unsafe for a classroom at any speed.

The thing is, I make meticulous lecture/discussion notes. I obsess over them. But I inevitably show up to class having no idea what will happen, both in terms of the class/classroom and exactly how I will lecture/lead discussion. And, as seems to be the case over the last few years, that is a safe expectation.

Today it was walking up to the building my classroom is in and hearing a beeping noise. Went inside, confused. Had to have an undergraduate who was in the know explain to me it was an odd-sounding fire alarm. Not a terribly big deal, especially as there appeared to be no fire, but found myself a) being asked by a student if we were still having class, b) herding my undergraduates out to a grassy knoll to conduct class. Then was told there were spiders in the grass by some of the students. So we moved to the next grassy knoll. This one was apparently spider-free.

Now, there’s not really a lot of drama as I’ve described things thus far, so you may be thinking, what’s the big deal? Where the drama comes in is the look that you get from students who have no idea what to do or what’s going on, and you are suddenly on the spot to make a plan. As someone who tries to achieve 99% preparation, this is basically my worst nightmare. That’s where the 199% improvisation comes in.

This is also an example of why, even though I don’t have children, I think I have acquired some basic sense of what it is to care for a young adult. Or in this case, a brood of them.