180 Degree Burden

One day, about four years ago, a student approached me at the end of class and gave me a big hug. In the moment it felt normal and natural, but it was actually quite out of the blue. In Kindergarten, this might be a common occurrence, but I teach 8th graders. To be honest, I will never really know why she gave me that hug. I remember very little about that class period. I think we had a conversation before class in which I extended grace related to making up an assignment after an extended absence. I also vaguely recall leading a class discussion related to culture and discrimination, though my memory is hazy. At any rate, something about our interactions that day moved her to hug me at the end of the class period, without explanation. 

These are the moments as a teacher when you feel like you are getting it right. A small signal of confirmation that you have made a positive difference for a student that day. The thing is, though, that we teach between 30 and 160 students every single day, depending on our grade level and position. Our lesson, our words and our actions leave an imprint on every single one of these students, 180 days out of the year. We either make a positive, negative or neutral impact on a child’s life, each time we receive them into our classroom. For every one student whose instincts compel her to hug the teacher at the end of the lesson, there are 29 others who may or may not have felt a connection to the teacher or the learning on that particular day. This is a burden that is almost too much to bear sometimes.

There is a book of which I only read a few chapters years ago called The Courage to Teach. This title perfectly captures the profound emotional burden of teaching. We step into the classroom each day with the uncertainty that we will reach any of our students and the near certainty that we will not reach all of them. Not just reach them academically, but touch their hearts. For a teacher to keep going back, day after day, takes tremendous courage.

During the pandemic, this burden is multiplied times a trillion. Our workload has increased exponentially as we navigate the logistics of designing effective instruction in the online format while mastering new technology platforms. We are dealing with our own personal issues related to living in the COVID-19 world, everything from increased parental responsibilities to extreme emotional stress. And in this moment where we are barely hanging on, the weight of the world is on our shoulders knowing this is also the time our students need us most. 

I almost wrote: They are counting on us to be strong leaders. They are counting on us to provide solid, engaging instruction. 

But no. I think right now, in this moment in time, they need something much simpler and much more difficult. They are counting on us to touch their hearts.

This is both terrifying and relieving.

I am not convinced that the specific academic content we provide to them matters, all that much, this year. Nor do I think we need to portray that we have our act completely together.

We need to give students a reason to keep showing up for their life. We need to give them something to engage in that feels meaningful. 

Do I know what this is or how to do this? Heck no.

This summer, as I cried through technology trainings and stomped through the house yelling about school district bureaucracy, I vowed that this year I would do the bare minimum to get by in my job so as to stay sane and focus on caring for my family. But we all know that was a load of bullcrap. Teachers do not scrape by. We do not do “bare minimum.” Like everyone else, I am up every night at 11:00pm scrolling through student reflections and adding extra visuals to my PowerPoints. 

As I try to strike some semblance of “balance,” I am constantly re-adjusting my understanding of what competency looks like during this turbulent, ridiculous school year. Given all the circumstances, I am trying to reimagine what is meaningful AND doable in this current moment in time. Part of this involves forcing myself to acknowledge what skills I bring to the table as a teacher, and let go of the rest of it.

These are some of my reflections and focus points lately:

1. Exude kindness and positivity.

There are so many things I am not as a teacher. I am not a commanding presence, a force of nature. My jokes are not funny. I am not the teacher every student flocks to with their deepest secrets. But I am kind. 

I know that students appreciate this because sometimes they tell me. On reflections or check-ins, they will say they like how Profe Klein is “nice to everyone.” They enjoy stepping into a positive classroom environment each day.

Kindness and positivity are traits that come naturally to me as a teacher. They are traits any good teacher possesses. I mention them because, as simple as they sound, they matter. Additionally, they require no extra planning time. 

Whatever special traits you possess that allow you to connect with your students, to lift them up and show them they matter, recognize them. Celebrate and be proud of them. When your lesson is less organized than you hoped or technology goes awry, give yourself credit for showing up as you. Do not underestimate the power of your positive interactions with students each day, irrespective of the content you taught them.

2. Extend unrelenting grace.

My colleague and good friend used the phrase the other day, “meeting kids where they’re at.” This struck a chord with me. This school year, it is extremely difficult to gauge where our students are at. For those of us still teaching online, we literally, physically cannot see our students. (Most have their cameras off for much of the lesson). We cannot read their facial expressions, their body language. We are often unaware of their mental and emotional states at any given moment. We cannot know for sure how well their technology is working that day. Their family situations, struggles and traumas are for the most part unknown to us.

I decided early on in the year to assume nothing and give unrelenting grace. When I call on a student and there is no response, I gently smile and move on to someone else. When I discover four silent black boxes during the breakout room discussion, I take a deep breath and ask, “How can I help you all get started? Do you know where to find the activity?” I celebrate the handful of students who unmute when I ask the class to repeat vocabulary with me. I enthusiastically praise every comment in the chat, even as the silence of the lesson slowly strangles me.

I may think students “should” be participating more, collaborating better and scoring higher. But I have to meet them where they are at. Especially in the online format, I have to take what they are showing me at face value. “Should” is a dirty word in this season. 

Are some students playing us just a little bit? Being a tad lazy, gaming the system of online learning, avoiding whatever responsibilities they can? Of course. Sometimes you get ghosted by a student the second you pop into their breakout room, and they later tell you their internet suddenly crashed. Honestly, it can be quite awkward and downright aggravating. 

But all we can do is keep inviting students to do their best. Now is the time to return to the golden rule of classroom management: Teach and re-teach every expectation. Assume nothing. 

3. Re-think engagement.

What does student engagement look like in the online format? Just like everything else, no one freaking knows. I have to invite myself to re-evaluate it constantly. By constantly, I mean every single week, since September. 

Each Monday at lunch time, I walk downstairs feeling like a miserable teacher. It feels like teaching into an abyss. It feels like leaving a voicemail and realizing halfway in that it’s not going well, but you just have to forge ahead. It feels like an excruciatingly awkward, one woman play and the audience is asleep. 

Then I teach another class. I make some observations and adjust a few things. It is then that I start to notice my inaccurate interpretation of reality. 

The classroom is a vibrant place where students are constantly talking. Zoom is silent unless and until a student makes the conscious choice to unmute and speak. It is easy to falsely misjudge silence as disengagement, in the same way teachers in the classroom sometimes assume noise equates to distraction. The point is, these surface-level perceptions are based on our own insecurities. We have to dig deeper. 

I invite us as teachers to broaden our view of what student engagement looks like during the 2020-21 remote school year. Students showing up to your class (and staying to the end!) equals engagement. 

No one unmutes to respond and you are left asking and answering your own questions during an entire worksheet, wondering 6 minutes in if you forgot to screen share. A few minutes later, student submissions start rolling in, and you realize they were indeed following along. They were listening. They were processing. This is engagement.

Without the ability to be in the same room as our students, we must re-adjust our interpretation of participation. In the classroom, we can see it immediately. With one glance, we know that 95% are working on the activity. We are aware of who is in the room with us and who went to the bathroom. We can see who is awake or whose head is turned away from the board. In the remote setting, we are going it blind much of the time. This requires faith. We must trust ourselves, that our instruction is solid and the lesson is being received. We must also trust our students.

For my part, as much as I fear I am free-falling into the Zoom abyss each day, the data tells me otherwise. The student polls and reflections tell me they are feeling good about their progress. The work they turn in shows they are learning. They tell me in one-on-one check-ins how much fun they are having with Spanish class. Somehow, I am reaching them.

4. Do not confuse competence for mediocrity.

We live in a culture of perfectionism and impossibly high standards. We are all overextended, and we are now ten months into a collective trauma whose end is just barely in sight. I know that as teachers, we want to provide the very best for our students. We want to be perfect for them, especially in this dark season. Yet we are drowning in work and constantly feel we are coming up short. 

I realized that when I get into a spiral of teacher anxiety, it stems from an “all or nothing” mind game I play on myself. When I cannot keep up with those around me who are using more technology platforms, are further ahead in the curriculum and have better designed PowerPoints, I begin to feel mediocre. 

We all want to be exceptional at our jobs. But there is something in between perfection and mediocrity. It’s called competence. And I think in the middle of a global pandemic, as our democracy crumbles around us, competency is more than enough to bring to the table. Teachers, have faith in your competence. Be kind and give grace to your students, and to yourself.