by Anthony Kunkel, English Teacher

I am in the front of the classroom. New shoes, new school year and it’s 7:35 A.M. The door is just to my right, my back to the white board, and there’s a slight breeze that whispers in, just enough to feel good. I’m nervous. I’m always nervous on the first day, even after so many years as a teacher. The first student comes in. He’s a small boy for a sophomore, and he looks anxious, awkward. He’s wearing his backpack like burden, tilted, uneven. 

“Good morning.” I smile at him. He reminds me of another boy I taught years ago, a student who was small, but bright and watchful, who hid his smile behind too many uncertainties, and the dark stories from home that were only glimpsed from a few sentences in his journal (or “notebook”—I had been told not to do journals anymore a few years back). I remember so much so quickly that it unnerves me for a moment. This boy reminds me so much of that boy who wrote so beautifully, who wrote about a moment he called ‘pure’ when he made his little sister smile, and described the fragrance, the richness, of the jasmine that was outside his bedroom window with a poignancy that I still remember. The boy who seemed to grow quieter and angrier each day and then was suddenly gone mid-semester.   

​“Hi.” He looks at me, a darting glance at best and talks to my feet. “Is there a seating chart?”

Other students have begun wandering in, and I am locked in this moment with this boy. I wanted to greet everyone at the door, like I try to do each morning, but I want this boy to know I that I’m going to care. I have thought about the other boy often, and I worry that he never knew how much I cared. But there’s also a reality in front of me that I have to deal with. I’m the teacher, this is day one, class is about to start, and I need to manage this class.

“Not yet,” I tell him abruptly, “sit where you like and I’ll move people around later.” I pause as he looks around the room skeptically. “I think you’re gonna like this class, okay?” I can’t help myself. The boy looks into my eyes for the first time. I see doubt, or maybe confusion.

Other students shuffle past me, most smiling, some not. I greet them and repeat several times, “no, there’s no seating chart yet.” It’s a full class, all 32 seats are taken quickly and there are two students left standing, a boy and a girl, both looking uncomfortable. I seat the girl in my cushioned chair by my desk, and the boy in a folding chair near the counter top by the back door. I’m a product of my upbringing, and I’m older, maybe sexist. I prefer the term chivalrous.

The chatter stops with the bell, a long gargling buzz that has always reminded me of the sound made in the movies when a jail door is opened. This is an important moment. This is a large class, and to me, the rest of the year may well be determined on how well and fast I can establish a few rules and expectations. I have letters from previous students on the podium in front of the class and I waste no time handing them out. There’s plenty to go around as I have hundreds, if not thousands from many years and many students.

“These are letters from some of my past students. They wrote these to give you an idea of what to expect, and how to do well in this class.” There’s silence and then the students begin reading. I know what’s in the letters. I choose the best ones to help make a point. Many of the letters talk about not making me angry. Many of them talk about how much they enjoyed this class. Most the letters talk about how much writing they did.  All the letters have a tone that I feel shows some affection, or respect, that was felt towards the class, and me. I tell them to pass them around, to read more than one. After several minutes the students are looking up. Many of them are looking around at each other. Some look worried. Some are smiling.  There’s a low conversation building as they begin sharing what they read with each other. There’s a girl in the center of class talking loudly to the girl next to her. The boy in front of her turns and begins paying attention. She’s gaining an audience quickly and I notice her phone is in her hand. She glances at the phone while talking, never missing a beat.  In just a minute I’m going to ask her name, then take her phone, write her up, and move her to the front of the class. If she argues while I do this, I’m going to send her to the office. Some of the letters warned students about this. We will have fun in this class, and probably quickly, but not just yet. There’s a few things to take care of first.   

I look around the class and see the boy who came in first. He’s sitting near the back, close to the door. I’m already looking for students I’ll sit him next to. I want him to feel safe. I don’t really know why, but then again I sort of do. My instincts are typically pretty good.

​The talking is getting louder so it’s almost time to deal with the cell phone and establish myself as the teacher in this class. I continue to watch them for a bit, as I have in many classes for many years now. I am very aware of how much I will come to care about these kids. As I get to know them, discipline becomes more complicated. Right now we’re just setting some boundaries. I cannot explain to them how much they will come to define me, or to allow me to define myself. I can’t explain to them what it feels like when I walk across the campus and hear them yelling my name and saying hello, or when I run into them outside of class and they are truly excited to see me. I am an English Teacher and I will probably get most them to write something amazing at some point. That’s what I do well, and those can be amazing moments—for them and for me. I’m pretty sure that not all of them will come to like me, but I am fairly certain that most of them will come to appreciate the fact that I care about them and expect good things. Even when it frustrates them. Also, if the former students who have stayed in contact, and shared so much of their lives with me over the years is any indication, I may become something more than just an English Teacher to some of them. That just seems to happen, and often with students I hadn’t expected to hear from again. I never planned on being this teacher, or any teacher for that matter, but in this profession I believe that we as teachers cannot be anything less than that person our students believe us to be. For me, that is a huge responsibility. It is also the greatest of blessings. 

by Gage Jeter
​ELA Curriculum Specialist, K20 Center 

by Andraé McConnell
English Coordinator, K20 Center

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”​
                                                            -Theodore Roosevelt, Citizenship In A Republic, 1910
 
I’ve never gotten around to reading this whole speech, but I read this excerpt often—usually when I’m feeling attacked by this circumstance or that. That’s one of the beautiful things about words, isn’t it? You can rob them of their context and set them to task serving your will. Well, I guess that’s kind of terrifying, too. Anyway, after I’ve selfishly used this excerpt to remind myself that “they hate me cause they ain’t me,” I cannot help but think about how, from beginning to end, it speaks to the experience of educators.
 
I’ve worked in education for eight years, first as a classroom teacher, and now as a researcher working with teachers across the state. I’ve examined the walls of their classrooms, listened to their stories of victory and defeat, swapped ideas with them, and sat with them in silence trying to figure out why a meticulously designed lesson plan replete with all the bells and whistles inexplicably fell flat. And almost always, I feel guilty to admit, it’s an unfair barter because I take away more than I bring.
 
My teachers, I call them mine partly because I’ve developed a paternalistic instinct to take care of them and partly because I do indeed learn from them, like all teachers, are doers. I mean good grief they are in the thickest of it, front and center, bending, sometimes breaking, but still taking on all comers. Can you even comprehend the moxie, the audacious grit required to walk into a room of people, any people, any age, presuming that you’re going to teach them something?

​And not only are you going to impart knowledge, provide instruction, and help construct new meanings, you’re going to do it with the eyes of simple everymen looking up at you from the sidelines, analyzing, questioning, criticizing, and “evaluating” your efforts! What manner of courage is that? Otherworldly, that’s what.
 
So to my teachers, and all teachers, I remind you to protect your energy. Protect it fiercely and deliberately; it’s amazing how quickly it seeps away when you really pay attention to it. Do not allow it to be leached by the critic that cannot even speak the language of teaching and learning, the snapshot evaluation posing as comprehensive, or the various missteps and setbacks that necessarily accompany all colossal strivings.
 
I have no interest in romance here.
Will your mind and body be streaked with the sweat and dirt of long days and even longer evenings?
Certainly.
Will you sometimes be plowed under by insurmountable odds?
Likely.
At times, will your efforts be met with misunderstanding at best and indifference at worst? Probably.
In the end, will you be counted among the throngs of timid souls that never stepped from the safety of the masses, never tested themselves against the heat and expectation of the arena, never knew the euphoria of a hard-fought victory, the candor of defeat, or the odd uncertainty that lies between the two?
No. Hell no. 

by Josh Flores,
​
​Director of Secondary English Language Arts for Oklahoma