Nothing could be further from the truth, for as much as I tend to complain about this job, it is nothing compared to the job I left.
I've always wanted to teach, and my plan was to follow in the footsteps of a mentor or two and teach middle schoolers the finer points of the English language. To that end, I pursued and ultimately received a teaching degree--ironically from the institution at which I am now a teacher. But somewhere between my decision to teach and walking across the stage in a long black robe, I began to question this career choice.
I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I've narrowed it down to sometime after my first clinical experience. This particular experience required us to observe a week of classes in our chosen age level and field at the school of our choice. This choice--for me, at least--was a no-brainer. I arranged to go back to my middle-school alma mater to sit in with my favorite former teacher, who was also the inspiration for my decision to teach. Her class was exactly as I remembered--right down to the smell of the books and her gentle way with the students. The off-hour in the teacher's lounge, however, was enough to give me pause.
Ask any kid under 14 and you're likely to find that very few have ever set foot in this inner sanctum for those who teach, and even fewer know what really goes on in there. As it turns out, there's a reason for this--one which I observed first hand on that initial day of clinicals. It's kind of like seeing a movie, or hearing a song--one that you've previously only experienced in its 'edited' for television or radio version--in its original, unaltered form. Once the doors to the teachers' lounge swing shut, the kindly science teacher is suddenly the drunken sailor, and the math teacher that greeted everyone with a smile is now railing about his students in a way that makes you wonder why they do it. And as a former student of most of these people, I had to wonder, good gods, what did they say about me?
I would love to tell you that things improved after that. But after a disasterous and disheartening experience as a student teacher, followed by an unsuccessful job search, I found myself in a series of consulation-prize jobs before I found what I thought would be a permanent home in the corporate world. This job involved a peripherial use of my college degree, a daily train ride to the city and a laid-back atmosphere that appealed to my own casual nature.
Throughout this foray into corporate America, I never lost the bug to teach. I knew I didn't want to teach middle school. I didn't want to be a babysitter, and middle school students aren't much more than hormones with feet. One of my friends--a college professor herself--suggested that I look into teaching at the university level, and when the crazy deadlines, clashes with management, and increasingly frequent travel to less-than-glamorous locations became too much, I began to explore my options.
Since my teaching certificate had long since expired, this same friend recommended that I think about returning to graduate school. So I applied. I even subjected myself to the torture of the Graduate Record Exam and the associated humiliation of not remembering that "pi" is more than a tasty treat after Thanksgiving dinner. But eventually, my acceptance letter came, and I tendered my resignation that day. Two weeks later, I was able to bid the corporate grind a not-so-fond farewell over many vokda-tonics with my soon-to-be-former coworkers.
If there ever was a poster child for being in the right place at the right time, I'm it. In my second year of grad school, I was given the opportunity to teach the same Introductory class I still teach today. This part time gig turned into a full time job, and one that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Teaching at the university is the best of both worlds. There's a wonderful freedom knowing that I can kick my students out, I can't deal with their parents by law, and if I accidently drop an F-bomb in class, I won't be facing the business end of a law suit. Sure, there are downsides. If you don't believe me, go back and read the rest of this blog. And I give anyone who does choose to teach those rowdy middle-schoolers all the credit in the world. But given what I hear from my friends in corporate America, what I see in their faces, and my own experiences, I'm not trading my current gig until they boot me out of my office, kicking and screaming at anyone who'll listen.
I often think back to that first clinical experience. Hell, I talk about it in my classes. It was a rude awakening, to be sure, but one from which I learned a valuable lesson. Teachers are human. We don't sleep in coffins. We get pissed off and frustrated. And while we may appear jaded and bitter--and deep down maybe we are--for many of us it's a defense mechanism. It just took me seeing life from the other side of the chalkboard to realize it. Bitching with colleagues--or venting on a blog--is the miracle cure that can save your sanity and keep your affection for the job intact.
So will I stop complaining? Probably not. Luckily we have our own version of teachers' lounges. Except we call them pubs.
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