When You Care Too Much
A bunch of vultures has been circling around our school. I'm not sure how long they've been there, but I noticed them a week or two ago. Out here in our rural area, we see buzzards sometimes. They eat roadkill, which is helpful, so seeing them isn't that strange. However, I initially noticed this group because there were so many of them. I mentioned it to my husband one morning on the phone. I even counted them -- there were at least twenty.
I expected it to be a random, one day occurrence, but they're still out there. This afternoon they'd broken into two groups, each one circling around a different end of campus. I've mentioned their appearance to other people, and they've noticed them too.
About an hour and a half ago, three things happened at once. I thought about those vultures, the lights in my classroom switched off (we have power-saving motion sensors in our classrooms.), and I watched this YouTube video.
*It has one, slightly offensive word in it. You've been warned.*
This scene from Coach Carter is the kind of thing all teachers dream about. In our daydreams we hope for the moment when our students realize what the real deal is and appreciate all the tough love we've been dishing out. If only teens understood that saying no to them is so much harder than saying yes. If only they knew that disciplining them and holding them to high standards is taking the hard road instead of the easy way out. We do it because we love them.
After the video ended, I leaned back at my desk and surveyed my dark classroom. I thought about what that room means to me. In many ways all that's best of me lives in that room. It's where I spend the energy I have to give the world, and I genuinely believe in what I'm doing in that room every day.
Then I thought about those old buzzards. I'm an English teacher, and in case you missed the part of literary analysis about symbolism, let me tell you that a huge flock of black birds that feed on carrion circling around any place in a short story is never a good sign. In fact, seeing them out there gives me the creeps. So I sat there, in the dark -- which could also be symbolic-- feeling a little bit morose.
What if I never have a moment like the one from Coach Carter? What if I never manage to get through to my students? What if I am failing them? Am I wasting my time?
Okay, I know what you're thinking. The answers to those questions in order are -- 1. What if you don't? Does it ultimately matter? 2. You are getting through to them more than you think. 3. You aren't because you keep showing up. 4. Nope.
There's always this talk in education about test scores and all sorts of statistics and demographics. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in it. At times there's a temptation to stop seeing students as individuals and start seeing them as part of a demographic. Essentially pressure is put on educators to think that way from politicians. One of my colleagues said this week, "People want to quantify something you can't quantify." You can't always see a student's changed life when you look at his SAT score, but policy makers need some sort of 'evidence' to back up the policies they dream up.
In short, all of this causes me a ton of grief. Why? I care too much. I find it really hard to give up on my students as individuals. I constantly feel like I'm waffling between the big picture and the needs of each student. Despite the difficulty, I think it's one of the things that makes me a good teacher.
It really isn't a trait I can take too much credit for. One of the specific things I ask God for in my daily prayers is that He will make me more like him. Let me share a passage from Romans chapter nine. This is from The Message translation about verse 22-30.
See? God's not in the business of numbers, so we shouldn't be in it either. Sure, I want my students to have stellar scores, but in all actuality, I want so much more for them than just that. I believe that if I ever stop caring, I need to stop teaching because then I've missed the point entirely.
Can you really care too much? I don't think so. Just ask Jesus.
I expected it to be a random, one day occurrence, but they're still out there. This afternoon they'd broken into two groups, each one circling around a different end of campus. I've mentioned their appearance to other people, and they've noticed them too.
About an hour and a half ago, three things happened at once. I thought about those vultures, the lights in my classroom switched off (we have power-saving motion sensors in our classrooms.), and I watched this YouTube video.
*It has one, slightly offensive word in it. You've been warned.*
This scene from Coach Carter is the kind of thing all teachers dream about. In our daydreams we hope for the moment when our students realize what the real deal is and appreciate all the tough love we've been dishing out. If only teens understood that saying no to them is so much harder than saying yes. If only they knew that disciplining them and holding them to high standards is taking the hard road instead of the easy way out. We do it because we love them.
After the video ended, I leaned back at my desk and surveyed my dark classroom. I thought about what that room means to me. In many ways all that's best of me lives in that room. It's where I spend the energy I have to give the world, and I genuinely believe in what I'm doing in that room every day.
Then I thought about those old buzzards. I'm an English teacher, and in case you missed the part of literary analysis about symbolism, let me tell you that a huge flock of black birds that feed on carrion circling around any place in a short story is never a good sign. In fact, seeing them out there gives me the creeps. So I sat there, in the dark -- which could also be symbolic-- feeling a little bit morose.
What if I never have a moment like the one from Coach Carter? What if I never manage to get through to my students? What if I am failing them? Am I wasting my time?
Okay, I know what you're thinking. The answers to those questions in order are -- 1. What if you don't? Does it ultimately matter? 2. You are getting through to them more than you think. 3. You aren't because you keep showing up. 4. Nope.
There's always this talk in education about test scores and all sorts of statistics and demographics. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in it. At times there's a temptation to stop seeing students as individuals and start seeing them as part of a demographic. Essentially pressure is put on educators to think that way from politicians. One of my colleagues said this week, "People want to quantify something you can't quantify." You can't always see a student's changed life when you look at his SAT score, but policy makers need some sort of 'evidence' to back up the policies they dream up.
In short, all of this causes me a ton of grief. Why? I care too much. I find it really hard to give up on my students as individuals. I constantly feel like I'm waffling between the big picture and the needs of each student. Despite the difficulty, I think it's one of the things that makes me a good teacher.
It really isn't a trait I can take too much credit for. One of the specific things I ask God for in my daily prayers is that He will make me more like him. Let me share a passage from Romans chapter nine. This is from The Message translation about verse 22-30.
Hosea put it well:
I’ll call nobodies and make them somebodies;
I’ll call the unloved and make them beloved.
In the place where they yelled out, “You’re nobody!”
they’re calling you “God’s living children.”
[Paul is quoting Hosea and Isaiah to make a point here. Italics mine]Isaiah maintained this same emphasis:If each grain of sand on the seashore were numbered
and the sum labeled “chosen of God,”
They’d be numbers still, not names;
salvation comes by personal selection.
God doesn’t count us; he calls us by name. Arithmetic is not his focus.
See? God's not in the business of numbers, so we shouldn't be in it either. Sure, I want my students to have stellar scores, but in all actuality, I want so much more for them than just that. I believe that if I ever stop caring, I need to stop teaching because then I've missed the point entirely.
Can you really care too much? I don't think so. Just ask Jesus.
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