Scoring 100%

Life has a way of filling itself up with things. This isn’t some new revelation or anything. It is, however, a truth I’ve had to come to terms with more and more this year, especially as a new teacher. Being busy is an excuse, sure, and it’s one I give a fair amount. It’s why I haven’t written one of these in eleven months. It’s why I have yet to read that book from the library, or schedule my dentist appointment, buy a new pair of shoes that aren’t wearing down, or even text that one friend group to try and schedule drinks some time. But life isn't just filled by the time you allot for things— it's also filled by effort.

Perhaps one of the things I least enjoy that takes up both a large amount of time and effort as teacher is grading. It certainly is one of the most stressful. Figuring out what to grade. How to grade, what rubrics and criteria to evaluate on. The simple fact that, in a majority of cases, ELA is not a simple right or wrong. Does this student’s claim deserve a 3 or a 4? Does this evidence really fit this question, even if it’s well argued? How do I grade a student who answers the question perfectly, uses meaningful evidence, but can’t capitalize their name or the letter I? I have to input the grades, explain them to parents, evaluate them myself. And when a student fails… when many students fail… I have this mix of emotions where on the one hand, I feel disappointed in them, thinking they should know better, do better. And on the other, I ask myself… did I teach this properly? Did I reach them properly? Who is the one failing here? Is it the student… or is it me?

The Great Story-Teller

A lot of stories are linear. I’m an ELA teacher, so I should know that. Some jump around in time, sure, and some occasionally loop around the same event to drive it home. But, I’m not going to do that, because, frankly, I don’t have a grand plot arc this time around. Lots of great things happened, as did a couple sucky ones. But it’s not the events of this year that are significant, it’s the lessons. After all, I wouldn’t be doing this if there wasn’t some story to tell.

My first full year in 6^th grade was fantastic. I love teaching stories, showing how descriptive language builds the scene and makes the action come alive. I love diving into characters; imperfect, flawed, ambitious, wonderous. I love exploring writing, how to make it stronger, how to add description, how to argue with evidence, and yes, even in sixth grade, how to capitalize a sentence. I love the spark in a kid’s eye when they get it, I love the revelations they have in discussions with each other, the open dialogue, the vulnerability, the silly, the creativity. I love that I get to be a part of each child’s life and show them something they’ve never seen, shining the Light in some unique way so that they too may grow.

There’s also a lot of hard stuff to go with it. Figuring out what lessons to teach, how to make it meaningful, and how to deliver it in forty minutes. Being intense enough to make kids struggle in a productive way while balancing the needs of others who need an extra boost. Balancing the “fun” teacher with keeping the kids in line and discipline tight. Making sure my kids are prepared for tests. Collecting data. So many meetings. Flopped lessons, days where you wonder whether anything you’re doing is meaningful, and your patience running thin because this is the 86^th time this year this kid hasn’t brought a pencil to class.

The Test

Of course, this isn’t my “first” go around teaching— one could argue last year was my big debut, or that my rigorous student teaching got me started, or, of course, the years I spent teaching preschool. Regardless, as a new teacher, I want to do things right. After all, I’m an investment, in a way— I was chosen specifically for this role, this position, this purpose. In order to yield positive results, the investment has to prove itself profitable. In this case, that means being the best teacher I could be— amazing lessons, strong behavior management, and high test scores. Especially as a teacher in a small and shrinking district where tenure is on the line, it’s essential I get it right. And not only that… I’m my mother’s son. If I do this, I have to do it right. For her. And for everyone else who believed in me.

The second the first kid walks into your room in September, the pressure is on. Perfect lessons. Perfect systems. Perfect management, perfect scores. It’s unrealistic, perhaps, to have it all perfect, but it better be darn near close. And there’s moments I’m impressed. A student writes a kick-ass essay. You call an anxious parent and manage to reassure her while enforcing your standards and gunning for her kid’s success. The lessons where you’re like, “Man, I wish admin was here to see that.” But there’s plenty of moments where it’s far from perfect. A stagnation in growth where it matters. Having to admit you were wrong to a parent. The feedback on a lesson where it’s stated, quite frankly, that it’s not challenging enough for the age group you’re teaching. The world of education is filled with both these kinds of moments. Life is.

Not everything is work, of course, nor can it be. You have to do the necessary adult things, like mow the lawn and unclog the sink. You work on time-consuming projects like rebuilding your computer, you help out others like taking your grandmother to doctor’s appointments. Social obligations, time with friends and family, and even the occasional moment to go on a nice solo hike, read a book, or write a couple pages of your book. But, as a new teacher, every moment you spend not doing class related things, is a moment you’re falling behind. And with essays you should’ve graded two weeks ago, lessons you really need to expand on, and state tests approaching, you really, really hesitate to take that time.

The Grade

Sometimes, teaching is making sacrifices. It’s a nice weekend, and I’d love to spend it outside. But I have to get this graded. At the same time, it’s also about setting boundaries. Making the conscious effort to leave before 4:00, and leave the papers on the desk for tomorrow. There’s a lot of pressure to get it all right. There’s a lot of pressure to get a 100. But you can’t. And the biggest lesson I’ve learned this year is that, that’s okay. It’s okay to not get 100%.

That sounds hypocritical, as a teacher who wants every kid to earn a 100%. But there’s an untold truth you realize as a teacher, that the kids don’t realize (for the most part anyway): there’s a big difference between trying your best and being perfect. I’m not saying don’t aim high. But know that, you can’t do it all, and you won’t, and that’s okay.

One of things I respect most as a teacher is when I have a kid come to me and tell me they can’t do the homework on time because of sports games or concerts or theatre productions. In a way, I love to hear that. Not because it’s one less thing to grade in the moment (though that is nice)— I love it because it tells me they’re human and they’re trying to figure out how to balance. Nine times out of ten, I give them an extension or offer to stay after school with them to help them (and, chances are I’ll try to catch a game or show too and cheer them on from the crowd). But if I afford them that grace, why shouldn’t I offer it to myself?

There are two lessons to be learned here. One: you won’t get it all right. You won’t make every lesson perfect, or achieve the perfect test scores. But you tried. You can honestly say did the best you could, as you could. And two: life happens. It needs to. There’s more to life than trying to obsess over work. If you do, you’ll neglect some other pretty important things.

To me, this was a year of success. I did a damn good job as a first-year teacher. I also hit some other big accomplishments: I went on a road trip, I paid off my student loans, saw Hamilton on Broadway, participated in a St. Patrick’s Day parade, and nearly memorized Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere”. And, there were a lot of small moments that made the year special: corn mazes, bike rides, burgers, snowmen, stickers, etc. There was a lot to fill up the year. I accomplished a lot. Both inside and outside the classroom. Yet, life isn’t about accomplishing all the things, it’s about making the things you do accomplish matter.

So, did I do it all perfect? No. But I did it. And that’s what matters.