Advice for New Teachers

At whatcantheyteachus.wordpress.com you can read advice given by veteran teacher, Nicole Lusiani Elliott, as well as the comments of others. This blog was started as a way to build community between students and new and veteran teachers, as well as gather submissions for her upcoming book, What Can They Teach Us? This blog and book are dedicated to the idea that to teach, we must learn; to learn, we must teach.

We all have gifts to teach and gifts to learn. What are your gifts?

Below are three samples of what you will find in the blog and soon in the book. Please consider linking to the blog to share your own stories. All submissions will be considered for the book.

Dear Teacher,

One word: boundaries.

I started teaching when I was 22 years old. As if that wasn’t enough, I taught at the school from where I had graduated five years prior. On top of that I had run out of money to finish my credential program and hadn’t even done my student teaching yet. We spun this first year of teaching as an “internship,” which was another word for, “we trust you, you are going to be great, now sink or swim.”

I was supported by an amazing mentor to whom I didn’t listen nearly enough. I wanted to do several different extra curricular activities for staff (like chairing a WASC committee) and students (like advising the cheerleading team). She told me, “Say no,” but I didn’t. To almost everything I was offered, my answer was an unequivocal, “absolutely!”

I taught three subjects that year. And the kids I taught were no easy crowd. Multi-lingual, multi-ability, over half qualifying for free or reduced lunch because of their exceptionally low-income level, my kids had as many emotional needs as they did academic. Once I asked a student why she didn’t do her homework; her reply, “I was in the hospital all night because my uncle got shot.” Understandably, learning about the plight of Native Americans fell on deaf ears to many of my kids; they had plights of their own facing them down every day.

Did I mention that I also waited tables three nights a week in order to pay my bills? And I lived and worked in the residence halls of my college as a Resident Director to pay my rent? I had a boyfriend who didn’t understand the life of an educator at all (as he called in the middle of second period to say, “Get a sub, let’s go surfing!”) and friends and family who had no sense of the fact that as a teacher, hours must be devoted long outside the 8am-3pm workday to grading and planning. With all of them I tried to maintain my pre-teaching relationships, staying up too late, expending too much emotional and physical energy, getting sick because I in trying to take care of everyone else I had forgotten to take care of myself.

In short, I was completely out of control.

My life as a teacher went on in this vein for almost three years. At the end of year three I was at a breaking point, emotionally and professionally. I was either going to leave this job I loved or I was going to have to wipe the slate clean and start all over. Undeniably problems follow us wherever we go; that said, sometimes an intentional and thoughtful clean break is the only way to get out of an unhealthy cycle. I turned in my resignation and walked away.

In that moment I knew the power of saying, “No,” just as my mentor had tried to teach me years before. People were very disappointed in me; in truth I was disappointed in myself much more. Regardless, I knew in my heart if I didn’t start over I would be leaving the profession entirely by the end of the next year. Because teaching was so important to me, there was no way I could let that happen.

By that time my credential was finished, I had married a man who was born into a family of educators, my own family and friends had come to understand the realities of my profession, and I knew things internally had to change for me, big time. I ended up exactly where I needed to be in order to find a way to set up a system of clear and definitive boundaries because my new school was at the opposite end of almost every demographic spectrum: it was white, English speaking, high ability, and wealthy. Because of how I grew up and my years spent at my first school, to me my new kids had absolutely no excuse. Not for anything.

Their privilege afforded them exceptional opportunities and there was no way I was going to allow them to milk me or anything having to do with their education. They were going to work, and they were going to work hard. I would meet them halfway, but there was no way I was going to work harder than they did. I left every day by 5pm, I never came in on the weekends, and I didn’t carry them in my heart when we were apart. I left them firmly at school and when I was at home I was fully focused on my family. I still had to work on the weekends, but not Sundays. Sundays were the days completely free of anything school related.

Ironically, in setting boundaries I set myself free.

I only lasted at that school one year. My husband and I moved, but I think I would have left anyway. Those kids weren’t “my kids.” They were amazing and smart and passionate; they taught me far more than I taught them but they weren’t the work of my soul. I knew what I had to do.

After two more years my husband and I moved again, allowing me to return back to the district of my roots. Within two years I was back at my high school, the place where I was transformed as a student and the place where I began my career seven years prior. I was a seasoned veteran by then, I had one child and another on the way; most importantly, I had my priorities straight.

What I realized in coming back was that no matter the demographic grouping, kids needed the boundaries as much as I did. No longer did I allow them the crippling effects of enabling: inflated grades because of hard life circumstances, the acceptability of missed deadlines, false hope that everything would always be ok. Kids need respect and nurturing and compassion; they also need tough love.

In a word: boundaries.

Whenever I see them start to spin out of control, I check myself: have I provided proper boundaries? Have I been honest and clear in my expectations? Have I held those expectations compassionately consistent? If they are falling apart and the reasons are not their own, then the responsibility is mine. Almost without exception, the issue is boundaries in one form or another.

Similarly, when I am out of control, I have to ask myself the same exact questions. Both for them and for me, boundaries of course need to be flexible, but they also need to be firm. This is difficult for a teacher who cares deeply for her students; it is also critical for a teacher who cares deeply about the profession of teaching. If you want to stay in it, you must get clear on your needs and hold firm in the knowledge that, as Mother Teresa used to say, you cannot give from an empty cup. If you can’t establish boundaries because you know you need them, do it because you know your students do.

Sincerely,

Nicole Lusiani Elliott

Veteran Teacher and Mentor, 14 years and counting

***

Dear Teacher,

In my years of teaching, I have learned five critical lessons. Be certain of one thing, if you are open and willing to see them, lessons exist in every moment of every day. These five, however, seem to be universal to every school, content, and grade level I’ve ever taught. We all have to learn our own lessons, but at least by reading this you’ll be able to identify them faster. I share them with you today in hopes you will have to endure less heartache in your early years in this profession than I did. This job comes with amazing reward, awesome responsibility, and a whole lot of damn hard work, personal and professional.

Lesson one: if there is any possible way for you to do it, get counseling. Now. Kids are big shiny mirrors to any personal issues you have. Even if you don’t know what your personal issues are now, you’ll know what they are within two weeks of teaching. People who have spent years in the profession blaming the kids for one thing or another that goes wrong in their classrooms aren’t paying attention to the reality that, until they come to grips with their own personal selves, the kids will continue to aggravate any unresolved issues they have. We all think we can escape it; none of us do. Save yourself time and energy, find a therapist on your insurance or with a sliding scale, and do it right now.

Lesson two: isolation breeds one of two things: arrogance or insecurity. Neither is conducive to good teaching. I am fortunate enough to work with exceptional colleagues who push me to be better every day. We collaborate in all areas professional, some even personal. You need a sounding board, a role model, a partner in survival; in short, you need allies. Go to every staff and department meeting with an open mind and open heart; attend every TGIF gathering, ask members of your content area to Sunday brunch to brainstorm anything from lesson plans to classroom management strategies. It will feel like you are too exhausted to reach out; push through it. They need you and you need them. More to the point, if you are going to be great, you are going to need some help. We all think we can do it alone, but we can’t. Reach out immediately and continue to do so every chance you get.

Three, be kind and respectful and appreciative to every single person on your staff who helps you. The secretary, the librarian, the custodian, the student who holds your coffee while you struggle to unlock your door without dropping everything in your hands, everybody. Don’t do it because it’ll get you something later, do it because it’s common human decency. You think you feel under-appreciated, the reality is you don’t know what under-appreciated is until you push a broom behind kids. The world would be a better place if we all took time to smile, say hello, and show gratitude; so will your campus. Do it even when you are tired, even when you are crabby, even when you are feeling like you want to quit this crazy job. Do it, and do it in some form every day.

Lesson four: when your kids work hard, notice. When your kids try hard, notice. When your kids choose to read rather than try to text under the table, notice. When they make you laugh or smile or give a deep sigh of relief because the risky lesson paid off, notice. The human condition is one that desires one thing: see me, hear me, value me, show me I matter and what I’m doing makes a difference. We want that, right? The kids want it too; more than that, they need it. The ten seconds it says to say, “Thank you for a really good day today, you guys,” will pay off a hundred fold tomorrow.

Finally, lesson five: above all else, be sincere. Kids can smell out a fake a mile away. Overly enthusiastic, a giver of false hope, a placater or a patronizer, forget it. If you are having a bad day, tell them. If you are feeling frustrated because you are working harder than they are, tell them. If they got nothing done today after you spent an hour on your plans before school, tell them. Don’t enable and don’t condesend. Be strong, be consistent, and be yourself. Like pets, all kids really want is you. The fancy lesson plans and the perfect outfit are meaningless if they can’t really see you. While I’m a firm believer in boundaries, to give at least a hint of your true humanity every day is essential for your success.

With great hope for the future of our profession,

Nicole

***

I have been a teacher for fourteen years; it never ceases to amaze me that I continue to learn more about the job all the time. Tonight, for example, I found myself seeing my work in a whole new perspective: teacher as artist.

In the fifth grade I had two teachers: Mrs. Sherman and Mrs. Williams. Mrs. Sherman was a short woman with pale skin and severe black hair, somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty years old. If we were upset no hug was better than hers; she was the soft and cushy sort who made the best kind of hugger. That said, to mess with this woman was to flash the red curtain in front of the bull; she was strict as strict could be, quick to raise her voice and put us in our places. While she was overtly intense, Mrs. Williams was quietly so. A young, tall, lanky woman with mocha colored skin and soft hair kept short and natural, she spoke calmly and quietly and instructed us with great patience. Her kind brown eyes made two things very clear without her having to say a word: one, you are loved; two, cut the crap.

We were a class of sixty kids, switching in groups of about thirty back and forth between our seats on Mrs. Williams side of the room to our seats on Mrs. Sherman’s side. Looking back I don’t remember who taught science and who taught language arts; like much of childhood, the specifics escape me. In this case, however, there are two exceptions that I remember in great detail.

First, with Mrs. Sherman all the girls in the class learned about “that time of the month” while the boys got to go out with Mrs. Williams for an extra hour of kickball. Every day that week Mrs. Sherman showed us film strips (yes, clickety-clackety, reel to reel film strips) about our bodies. I remember the clicking sound of that film seeming to provide sound effects for the little egg moving down the fallopian tube as I thought, holy Lord, is that what I eat when I have eggs for breakfast?

The other piece of fifth grade academia that stands out clearly in my mind is my proudest artistic moment. One day that spring Mrs. Williams led our half of the class in making what was quite possibly the most beautiful daffodil ever created. It was remarkable, I remember thinking, that out of paper, glue, paint, and one segment of an egg carton, we could create this three-dimensional version of one of my favorite flowers. I was struck by my beautiful flower and believed in that moment I was to be a great artist. If I could create something as beautiful as that, what else could I do?

Unfortunately, I was one of those kids who knew if I couldn’t do it well, it wasn’t going to get done by me. It didn’t take many failed attempts at drawing, painting, and constructing art to lead me to believe my self proclaimed days of “artist” were numbered. Fifth grade was the last time I tried my hand at art, or so I thought.

As I walked my dog through the bitter cold tonight (as bitter cold as Bay Area winters get, that is) and I was struck by the daffidols beginning to sprout. How could something so reminiscent of spring emerge in such a time of gray cold? Every year I am taken back by the simple beauty of the daffodil, just as I was in fifth grade by my egg carton version of the same flower. It struck me tonight that the flower itself is a work of great art, a gift given to us and tended by us. Anyone who has ever worked in a garden knows that to tend to soil, whether the intent is to grow flowers or vegetables, you have to be thoughtful, educated, and a touch inspired by the divine. This, in its very essence, is to be an artist.

Tonight, I realized art isn’t just about drawing or painting; art is anything created. Anything that once was nothing and then something, made possible by the mind and heart of any human being or even the simple, profound grace of God, that’s art. In that moment I realized that that flower I created in fifth grade wasn’t the first and last creation of me as artist; that flower was the first step in the evolution of me as artist.

I create art everyday. I cook. I garden. I write; but perhaps my most important art is what I am lucky enough to call my profession: teaching. If teaching isn’t art I don’t know what is. Where once there were words on a page, with teaching the information comes to life and sparks students’ minds. Just like a great painting, my lessons provide opportunity for new ideas and concepts and wonderings; they engage conversations and even debate; and on days my lessons are really great, they go even further to enlighten and empower young minds with strength and hope and give my students a better sense of themselves and their place in the world.

We are all born artists of some kind; it is a part of our nature as human beings, this desire and ability to create. If we are lucky, our work is our art. Some of us are born artists and some of us have to work exceptionally hard to grow into them. Regardless, teaching is an art to be valued perhaps more than many others.

Like with any art, in teaching natural gifts and ongoing learning combine to make great work. A rapport with students, an ability to break down concepts, a diligent work ethic—all of it is necessary and much of it innate. This must work in conjunction with things like the ongoing learning of curriculum, refinement of classroom management, and the trial and error of different philosophies and pedagogy. Without both the innate and the learned, both respected as ongoing evolutions, the struggle to create the art of teaching is immense and often drives people out of the profession entirely. Worse, it allows others to grow weary and choose the version of teaching that is not art at all; instead of teachers, they become place holders.

Like a painter, we must work hard to develop our craft. It takes effort and time and relentless commitment. The first years are almost unbearable. We want to quit and cry and throw our hands in the air, and yet we don’t. We don’t because we have been born to teach. To do anything less would be unworthy of our art.

And art, it most definitely is.