When I was 22 and getting ready to graduate from college, I faced the first of many existential crises. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I was nearing graduation. I had thrown together a religion major with a French minor, but I had no plans to use either. It became a year of escapism. Like Walter Mitty I daydreamed of grand adventures and a lifetime of meaning. I escaped to a world of possibility: I could be a oncology nurse or a civil rights lawyer or a life-changing social worker. But still the clock ticked closer to graduation. I watched my peers who were so much more together than I was. They had life plans and goals; they wore power suits for real-life job interviews. I had an impeccable transcript and a useless major; I wore thrift store t-shirts and a necklace made from a cut-up red handkerchief. Like that senior year at Wartburg, I face a new existential crisis now, the mid-life sort where I question choices and contemplate regrets and what-ifs. I keep a folder in my filing cabinet labeled “Encouragement.” Inside I tuck in notes and reflections from former students. I store thoughtful thank you cards received after graduation and self-assessments that help me remember my WHY. I pulled out that folder this week, and several phrases from my early years as a teacher struck me. Students described me as “fun and exciting,” mentioning my “spontaneous personality.” One girl reflected at the end of the semester, “I love how you love your job” and another wrote, “I always left the classroom happy. You even lift me up and say more nice things than I hear from my parents.” I don’t share those things as a shameless brag. I share those things because they were all written nearly ten years. I’m not sure anyone today would describe me as spontaneous. Sure, I still get the occasional note from a student, but I honestly don’t feel like I’m making the impact I once was. So of course that causes me to reflect. Maybe a bit too much. Is the change because of me? I’m now a working mom. I don’t have the energy or stamina in the classroom that I once had. I no longer stay until 6:00 and volunteer to take on extra responsibilities that help to build relationships with students. I’m also no longer young. When I first started teaching, the age gap between my students and me wasn’t very noticeable, and now just eleven years later, I’m old enough to be their mother. I’ve traded my thrift store t-shirts for diamond studs and sensible flats. (As a matter of fact, just this week I was asked if I was a grandma. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider my stance on plastic surgery.) Is the change because of my students and our society? When I first entered this profession, we had to sign up for times to work in the computer lab, and students were texting on old flip phones. Students still passed real notes, for heaven’s sake. Now I work in a 1:1 district where every student carries a computer in his hands and one in her pockets. Snapchat and YouTube seem much more entertaining than a writing project for English class, and rather than spending spare time reading books, my students are perfecting their bottle flips. I’m not sure what the answer is. Maybe it’s a combination of both changes in me and changes in our culture. Or maybe I’m just tired because we decorated doors for homecoming and I’m procrastinating responding to students’ Article of the Week reflections. I just know that I find myself sitting here at my desk, wondering if I’ve lost my mojo, and perhaps more importantly, if it’s time to go look for it.
2 Comments
10/1/2016 07:39:55 am
You won't find your mojo...it will find you! Keep your heart open to all possibilities!
Reply
Allison Berryhill
10/1/2016 10:06:28 pm
Your self-awareness and honesty are refreshing. Thank you for such honesty.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
AboutTeach. Archives
September 2020
|