A kid hands in his state test (multiple choice) with two answers circled for one question.
Me: “You can only choose one answer for each question.”
Kid: “Well, I know but I couldn’t decide between B and C. So I’m just going to do both.”
Me: “You can’t do both. If you choose both, it’s automatically wrong.”
Kid: “Ok.”
(Does nothing)
Me: “Please choose one answer.”
Kid: “No thank you. I’ll take my chances.”
I’m not sure you understand how chances work.
Tomorrow begins state testing. My 9-year-old students will come to school and sit for hours to take a test that is not remotely reflective of what they know, who they are, or what they are capable of achieving.
So in honor of these torturous, painful, anxiety-inducing tests that my young students have to suffer through and I have to watch them suffer through, I quit my job.
Hah, just kidding!
That’s not why I quit.
It makes me feel pretty good about my decision, though.
Ok yeah it’s a little bit why I quit.
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
I was going to bring a handwritten thank you note next week, but now you can go fuck yourself.
Also, I gave the cookies to a homeless man.
After I posted Yes. That’s Exactly What the Beatles Were Going For., someone alerted me to the fact that the song “Blackbird” was, in fact, inspired by the civil rights movement. A quick google search during my lunch break confirmed this was true. So after lunch, I approached the kid.
Me: “So guess what? You know how this morning you said ‘Blackbird’ was about black people being free? And we said that was maybe a possibility, but that seemed a bit specific, and perhaps there was a larger theme of overcoming adversity and being brave? Well, it turns out you were exactly correct. Paul McCartney, who wrote the song, said that when he wrote the lyrics, he was inspired by the black women in the Civil Rights movement, who were fighting to be treated equally.”
Kid: “Yeah. I know.” (walks away)
Oh.
Ok.
Therapist: “You’ve been saying for a while now that you might want a career change. It seems you haven’t felt very fulfilled at your current job.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “And you said you were going to take some time, explore some options, talk to a few people, do some research, and come up with a plan.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “So, you did that?”
Me: “Yes I did!”
Therapist: “And you have a plan?”
Me: “Yes, in fact I do!
Therapist: “I mean besides ‘get pregnant and quit.'”
Me: “Oh. Then no.”
Hey teachers! Guess what? I just discovered that cheese makes the perfect after-school snack on a particularly rough day, just as long as you make sure it’s brie and that there’s an entire wheel of it and that you’re alone and that you eat it with your fist and that you salt it with your own tears.
I know some teachers who are so traumatized by their germ-infested classrooms during cold/flu season that they wash every single item of clothing they wear, every single time they wear it. Which is completely ridiculous.
I burn mine.
Me (to student): “Did you do your homework on a calculator?”
Kid: “No!!!”
Me: “Well, I find it hard to believe that you randomly came up with that super long number as your answer. Which would technically be the correct answer to 40 divided by 3, had you used a decimal point after the first 3. But that would be strange, since we never taught you decimal points. Only remainders.”
Kid: (Blank stare)
Me: “Also, I see NO work.”
Kid: (Blanker stare)
Me: “So again, I will ask you– did you use a calculator?”
Kid (wide-eyed): “NO. I did NOT.”
Me: “Unfortunately I don’t believe you.”
Kid: “I swear! I used an iPhone!!!!!”
The other day some teachers in my school were discussing how the 5th graders have been very into googling their teachers to see what kind of dirt they can dig up.
I’m sure this trend will catch on with the 4th graders soon enough, so just to prepare myself for what my students might find, I googled my name. The very first thing to pop up (besides my LinkedIn page) was an essay my father wrote about why he supports mental health organization Active Minds.
It goes into detail about my battle with Depression and Anxiety, focusing specifically on a time when I was deeply, deeply depressed, to the point where I had to quit my job and move home. It talks about how I couldn’t function. How my brain essentially lost the ability to comprehend the simplest of information. How I was terrified all the time, and couldn’t stop crying. How I was completely dependent on those around me. How I took, and continue to take, medication for mental illness. How I saw, and continue to see, a psychiatrist.
And you know what? Good.
Sure, I could worry about the general stigma and misunderstanding. I could worry about judgement from the students’ parents. I could worry that the children, families, or administration would look at or treat me differently.
But I don’t. At all. The old me would have.
Here’s how I see it now:
Your teacher was really sick and she got better, kids. And she works extremely hard to stay better, even though some days can be pretty tough. But she keeps going. And she has wonderful, strong relationships with caring, amazing people who are there to support her through the darkness and celebrate with her in the light. She stumbles, and sometimes it takes weeks or months to get back up. But she does. And she’s stronger and wiser for it.
I think that’s a pretty great lesson for a 10 year old.
Don’t you?
Now let’s just hope to god they never find my blog. 
People often ask me what it’s like to teach at a city public school, so I figured I’d go ahead and create a pat answer that almost anyone can relate to.
You know that feeling you have when you’re trying to fold a fitted sheet? It’s like that.
But instead of one sheet, you’re folding 30 sheets at the same time.
And every sheet has its own unique challenge, in addition to the inherent challenge of it being a GODDAMN FITTED SHEET THAT WON’T FOLD.
Some of the sheets have holes in them, and no matter how gentle you try to be, you end up accidentally ripping them more, because they’re just too damn fragile.
Some are as stiff as cardboard and simply can’t be bent in any direction, no matter how hard you push, tug, and pull.
Some smell like stale sweat so you have to figure out a way to fold them without breathing, lest you vomit.
Some are falling apart at the seams.
Some have bed bugs.
Some are tear-stained.
Some are straight up covered in pee.
But you’re still expected to fold all 30 of them every single day, all at the same time, and put them neatly away. In a pristine pile. In a tiny, overheated closet that can’t possibly hold a pile of 30 sheets.
Then at 3pm, EVERY SINGLE DAY (even on the days you DO manage to create an actual pristine pile, which happens an average of 1 day per decade), the sheet manufacturers come by, rip open your tiny closet, rummage through your neat pile, and derail everything you worked so hard to do.
But don’t worry, you get another chance to fold them bright and early the next morning.
And every morning.
For the rest of your life.
But yeah otherwise teaching is great!
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