I've been working on an article for a long time, formerly entitled: "The State of Our Nation's Education: Myths and Facts." Now, this article may come about soon enough, and that will be MUCH more of a factual, logical argument, using sources and statistics and data to debunk the lies. But this needed to be said, because I am both emotionally and physically exhausted.
Now, some of you might ask me why I'm exhausted. Most, out of a genuine curiosity, but some because you know I'm a Masters Student, working at a local elementary school. And you think, "Cinders, you're just training to be a teacher. You're not even a real teacher, but you talk you are. You're a student, really. That's not hard."
The thing about so-called "student teachers", which is what I am, is that they are both student and teacher. I teach my class, daily. I act as nurse, parent, coach, therapist, police officer, mediator, entertainer, and facilitator to 26 students, not counting the ones who aren't in my classroom. We attack fractions and angles together. We empathize with Billy in Where the Red Fern Grows together. We memorize digits of pi using colored bracelets that we made together. We are a community together, and I love all twenty-six of those kids as if they were blood. So because I love those kids, I work for them. I work and work and work and I make sure that they have access. I make sure my SPED students don't get lost in the shuffle. I make sure my ELL students have enough scaffolding to orally participate. And I make sure my spectrum students get the stimulation they need to stay engaged.
I create games, like "Where in the State is Carmen Sandiego" to teach state history and geography. I write entire units on poetry and narratives, making note to keep track of their interests, and involve more Greek mythology because they love Percy Jackson.
In the mean time, I go to class. I read fifty pages about teaching using Inquiry. I take notes on the complexity of social justice. I write an eight page paper on whether or not we should have a national curriculum, and I attend lectures by guest speakers at the downtown library. I consult with professors. How can I make this science unit more active? How do I make sure my ELL students don't get lost during a read-aloud? Does the sequence of this writing unit make sense?
And then, I come home. I come home, and I turn on the news, after completing my lesson plans, after closing my textbooks, and I hear, "Teachers are greedy." "Paid way too much." "link" "A glorified babysitter."
I turn off the TV. And I ask myself, what am I doing? Why am I in this career? It's way too much work, I'm two seconds away from a total breakdown, and every two weeks I'm begging my professors for an extension. Or I'm imploring my coach to please explain why she scored me as "did not pass" on classroom management and engagement during my observation when I passed the time before. My starting salary next year, without my Masters (which I get in 2012) will be $34,000. I witness students hurl staggering insults at each other and grow up way too fast. I see firsthand the effects of poverty and homelessness on children. And no one appreciates what I do. None, except, of course, those who see me do it. My students. Their parents. My colleagues.
And then, I remember, when Robert told me, "I never liked to read before you made me read The Lightning Thief." I remember Michael, a SPED student, raising his hand and participating (with gusto!) for maybe the first time ever during a read-aloud after I had had given him a graphic organizer to help him follow the lesson. I remember Melinda, who insisted that she had no friends and Carolyn hated her, until I partnered them up during the walk-a-thon and they've been inseparable ever since.
So this is me, declaring (mostly for my own sake) that if you want to rag on teachers, Media, go ahead. Because I know who I am. I know what I'm worth. I know what my fellow Masters students are worth, and the utter devotion I hear in their voices when we get together and discuss our students. I know the reason my cooperating teacher wakes up at 4:00 every morning to drive across the city to come work at our school. I know the effort my principal puts into make sure our school is the best possible place for the people who go there, not just what the State wants it to be.
I take pride in knowing that I know education. I know the truth. And I thank my own education, my colleagues, my teachers, my students, and my supportive family and friends for that knowledge.
Now, some of you might ask me why I'm exhausted. Most, out of a genuine curiosity, but some because you know I'm a Masters Student, working at a local elementary school. And you think, "Cinders, you're just training to be a teacher. You're not even a real teacher, but you talk you are. You're a student, really. That's not hard."
The thing about so-called "student teachers", which is what I am, is that they are both student and teacher. I teach my class, daily. I act as nurse, parent, coach, therapist, police officer, mediator, entertainer, and facilitator to 26 students, not counting the ones who aren't in my classroom. We attack fractions and angles together. We empathize with Billy in Where the Red Fern Grows together. We memorize digits of pi using colored bracelets that we made together. We are a community together, and I love all twenty-six of those kids as if they were blood. So because I love those kids, I work for them. I work and work and work and I make sure that they have access. I make sure my SPED students don't get lost in the shuffle. I make sure my ELL students have enough scaffolding to orally participate. And I make sure my spectrum students get the stimulation they need to stay engaged.
I create games, like "Where in the State is Carmen Sandiego" to teach state history and geography. I write entire units on poetry and narratives, making note to keep track of their interests, and involve more Greek mythology because they love Percy Jackson.
In the mean time, I go to class. I read fifty pages about teaching using Inquiry. I take notes on the complexity of social justice. I write an eight page paper on whether or not we should have a national curriculum, and I attend lectures by guest speakers at the downtown library. I consult with professors. How can I make this science unit more active? How do I make sure my ELL students don't get lost during a read-aloud? Does the sequence of this writing unit make sense?
And then, I come home. I come home, and I turn on the news, after completing my lesson plans, after closing my textbooks, and I hear, "Teachers are greedy." "Paid way too much." "link" "A glorified babysitter."
I turn off the TV. And I ask myself, what am I doing? Why am I in this career? It's way too much work, I'm two seconds away from a total breakdown, and every two weeks I'm begging my professors for an extension. Or I'm imploring my coach to please explain why she scored me as "did not pass" on classroom management and engagement during my observation when I passed the time before. My starting salary next year, without my Masters (which I get in 2012) will be $34,000. I witness students hurl staggering insults at each other and grow up way too fast. I see firsthand the effects of poverty and homelessness on children. And no one appreciates what I do. None, except, of course, those who see me do it. My students. Their parents. My colleagues.
And then, I remember, when Robert told me, "I never liked to read before you made me read The Lightning Thief." I remember Michael, a SPED student, raising his hand and participating (with gusto!) for maybe the first time ever during a read-aloud after I had had given him a graphic organizer to help him follow the lesson. I remember Melinda, who insisted that she had no friends and Carolyn hated her, until I partnered them up during the walk-a-thon and they've been inseparable ever since.
So this is me, declaring (mostly for my own sake) that if you want to rag on teachers, Media, go ahead. Because I know who I am. I know what I'm worth. I know what my fellow Masters students are worth, and the utter devotion I hear in their voices when we get together and discuss our students. I know the reason my cooperating teacher wakes up at 4:00 every morning to drive across the city to come work at our school. I know the effort my principal puts into make sure our school is the best possible place for the people who go there, not just what the State wants it to be.
I take pride in knowing that I know education. I know the truth. And I thank my own education, my colleagues, my teachers, my students, and my supportive family and friends for that knowledge.