It’s only been about 6 weeks since I last stood in front of a class and (hopefully) taught. It’s been less than 48 hours since I sat in someone else’s. And today, it begins again. And I’m scared.
Yes, scared. I know it seems unreasonable, because I love the school I’m at. I love the kids (most of them – veritas serum again). I love to teach. I love the connections; momentary or long lasting. I love the lightbulb moments. I love surprising the teenagers by knowing about the latest apps, games and songs. I love the reactions I see when they realise that I’m a person and I have a home. I believe the generally accepted school of thought is that teachers live in a box under their desk. I love to throw lesson plans out the window and ride the wave of a valuable tangent. I love it when a lesson plan and said lesson actually are the same. So why am I scared?
I’m scared because every ‘night before’ I fear being found out. I fear that someone, somewhere, somehow will discover that I’m actually not very good at this. I’m scared that I actually won’t be. I’m scared they won’t like me. I’m scared that despite my planning and best efforts, the whole thing goes pear shaped.
This is unfounded. In almost 7 years of teaching so far, none of this has proven true.
Oh, there have some pretty spectacular muck-ups; by no means has perfection taken up residence. Some days, I’m actually not very good at it. Some days only I know that. Some days I’m sure I’m the only one who doesn’t. But some days, I’m brilliant! Some days, they don’t like me. Some days I don’t like them all that much either. But some days I’m the ‘best teacher ever!’ I have it on the authority of a coffee mug. Some days pear shaped would be a bonus. But some days, we are the whole fruit salad!
I could cheerfully forget the times I’ve been taken to task for not following guidelines. I could be okay without memories of 6 dismal months of ‘that class’ in Year 10 History. If I never melt a plastic box on a hot plate in the Home Ec kitchen again, I’ll die content. Broken bones, cut fingers, burns and seizures; you can keep them.
But there are jewels too. The consistent C- who got a B. The sudden, and totally unexpected, discovery of a student’s flair for writing flowery Shakespearean prose. The spark of understanding.
If you’re a teacher, you’ll know both sides of that battered, but still valuable, coin. You’ll know the highs and the lows. You’ll understand the billions of possible reactions you might have to the simple phrase, “Scuse me, Miss?”
And you’ll be scared. And you’ll love it. All at the same time.