As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?
Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.
When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.
I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!
Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?
In my experience, watching people flee this place, there seem to be only a few ways to leave NYC:
1. “The big fuck you.” When New York has skinned you alive. You leave filled with animosity for a city that is relentless and cruel. The New York you know is merciless, dark, dangerous, hateful. You leave broke and broken, forever changed by the darkness you felt.
2. The, “I’m done with you.” New York no longer fits your needs, or fulfills your lifestyle requirements. You’re not pissed, New York just doesn’t offer you what you need. Whether it’s a new school, new job, a small town, a change of scenery, a different pace of life–it’s not here, it’s somewhere else. You leave knowing that there’s something better out there for you but grateful for what you’ve learned from this sometimes wonderful, sometimes awful, city.
3. The “Nooooo!” exit where you leave kicking and screaming. Your partner gets a job elsewhere, you get into a school, but not in New York. You just CANNOT afford it. You are devastated to leave behind the most exciting and beautiful city in the world. You preemptively long for the skyscrapers, the beautiful brownstones, and late nights, the takeout and public transportation. You spend the next two years romanticizing life in the city, depressed, and forlorn, unable to move forward with your non-NYC life.
4. The “whatevs” ambivalent exit. I could stay I could go, easier to go. I’ll come back to visit. Not too many of these. The people in this category know they aren’t lifers. They come to experience the “energy” but are always talking about their plan to return to their small hometowns.
Where do I fit in? A little from column A, a little from column B. Throw in a little C and D just for kicks.
Standing outside a dark, gothic church, on a granite sidewalk, staring into warmly lit brownstones across the way. A thick sandwich–fluffy white roll and a large chunk of meat, with just a sliver of lettuce and tomato. There are a multitude of small moments, sights, sounds, tastes–that are distinctly New York. The meat-heavy sandwich, the stone sidewalks, the silhouetted skyline, the people passing by, all of it, only here in this place. There will be new sounds, new faces, new smells that will stick to the insides of my nostrils and adhere themselves to my memories–creating with them a new sense of home, a new aura of self. But these things, these belong to New York City alone. These sensations and sights, these cobblestone streets and gas lamps. These are the romantic images of films, the backdrops of prom photo booths–this is the living, breathing snapshot of New York. No late-summer garbage reek can taint this image. No crowded subway car–hands groping, men preaching, women screaming, people begging–can erase this experience. No neighbors’ blaring talk show radio or NYU drunken frat boy, no snowy March day or shit-filled puddles can diminish this sparkle, this brightness, this feeling of belonging and centeredness.
There are two New Yorks: the one you live in and the one you dream of living in.
It’s the latter that breaks your heart. And, that’s the one you imagine you’ve always lived in, that’s the one you remember and mourn after you’ve gone. Even if that New York was really just a figment of your imagination.
Teachers are expected to be superhuman.
To not think about themselves, to not have lives outside of their classrooms or be prone to bouts of negativity. To not be the type of people who need to let off steam or have feelings toward other humans–whether they be child or adult.
This disturbs me greatly.
We are not in the business of saving lives–although many of us take our jobs seriously enough that we feel as though we can impact lives in a huge way. But, that’s how we are treated. As though some tiny misstep, one little shred of weakness, one human emotion, and someone could DIE. And, therefore–since we are supposed to act like gods while we’re treated like servants–we should be fired for being human, reprimanded, or at the very least, shamed publicly.
Have you ever had surgery? Have you ever watched surgeons during surgery? They have funky playlists and no qualms about idle chatter. Do we scold them for acknowledging that even though they are saving and risking lives–it’s also just their job? Do we shame them for being so callous as to discuss their weekend plans before cutting you open? No. We pat them on the back and say, Job well done. Bravo. How skilled you are, how precise, how brave and bold.
I’m not trying to rag on doctors. Respect. I’m just trying to point out the insane double-standard we seem to have in this country when it comes to certain professions.
Teachers are consistently berated for simply having human thoughts. I can’t tell you how many books I read in my first year of teaching that describe, in detail, how negative teachers are–and warned against the evil that lurked in the teachers lounge. It is a place of malice, it is a place of hate and darkness. Teachers go there to say ugly things–about each other, about their students, about the administration and the PTA, to bitch incessantly. Don’t go! they warn. Don’t let them drag you down to their underworld, the books preach.
Well, first of all it is a non-issue in New York, because who has space for a teachers lounge? But, we meet in classrooms or in school yards, we congregate in shared spaces and find solace in each other. In the shared experiences and the shared grievances. In the shared joys and successes. We plan field trips, talk through curriculum. We discuss books–educational and non, we talk politics, babies, weekend plans. We collect contributions for baby showers and bridal showers, funereal costs, and birthday presents–we plan Friday happy hour. It’s a safe space for people who understand your particular struggles and your particular triumphs. Yes, there is kvetching–about kids, about disrespectful parents, about run-ins with administrators and teachers who we feel could be doing more.
My question is, what’s the harm? Why the drama?
Why can’t teachers speak honestly about their experiences? Why can’t teachers come together to ask for help from their colleagues? Why can’t teachers congregate and discuss hardships–be they curriculum or human-based? This rhetoric around the evil teacher who sins by being truthful or blunt is so disturbing to me. And it is continually reinforced by these “teaching” books by “educators”. I would like to know who these supposed educators are–writing about the evils of having feelings and discussing them openly. I’m not trying to be a conspiracy theorist here, but…they can’t actually be teachers, can they? This vitriolic dialogue about educators simply serves to reinforce unfair stereotypes. It does nothing to change the conversation or challenge commonly held beliefs–be they true or fabricated.
Let’s talk about the camaraderie of teachers, the necessity of colleagues. Let’s be real about how draining–emotionally and physically–the profession is. Let’s just say out loud that some kids wreak havoc on our lives, treat us disrespectfully, fight, are sneaky, are cruel and dishonest, are generally pains in our asses. Why can’t we acknowledge that? Because it’s not pc to say–because they’re tiny humans and so we attach to them some sort of immunity from being human. And, listen, those kids get a new start every day. They get a smile and the benefit of the doubt; they get endless patience and hours of us trying to figure them out. They get, “let’s find their buy-in” and “let’s complete a functional behavior assessment and see if we can’t figure out the antecedent to the tricky behavior.” They get behavior plans and model-student partnerships, they get one-on-one help and meetings with parents, reading buddies, and after-school tutoring. Sometimes a tricky kid is a product of poor parenting, shitty circumstances, abuse, realities of a cruel and unfair world. And, that’s real and it’s horrifying. And, I spent years surrounded by trauma in my first half decade of teaching. And, it nearly killed me inside. I cried every damn day my first year of teaching. I cried after lockdowns and guns in our school, I cried after cousins got jumped and mothers were murdered, I cried every week when I called ACS and had to report yet another horror story–things I will never erase from my memory, images I can never un-see.
We are on the front lines. It is an impossibly hard job–especially in certain parts of the world/country/city. We are the ones saying, we’re here for you, we aren’t going anywhere, you are safe. You can breathe here and flourish and think and wonder. I will support you, I will love you, I will do everything in my power to help you love yourself and to help you think critically about the world around you. But, I am still allowed to be wrecked by the end of my day. I am allowed to scream about injustice and to rage about inequality and abuse. And, I should be supported in having a glass of wine and talking about my outrageously difficult day–otherwise, I won’t survive it. It will gnaw at my insides and empty me out until there is nothing left but a angry, hostile shell.
Every day we play: therapist, mommy, friend, coach, peace-maker, advocate, evaluator, motivator–and now I sound like a t-shirt slogan, but you get the idea. It’s a big job. It’s a hard job. It’s exhausting if you’re doing it well. And, all I’m asking is for a little understanding from the outside world. A little support for the ways in which I take care of myself and keep from burning out–discussing my feelings and the things/people that/who are stressing me out, dissecting reactions to particular interactions, breaking down my strengths and weaknesses, and yes, some plain old shit-talking with colleagues. Just like everyone else. Because we are teachers and leaders but we are also just humans. Working alongside other humans. Interacting and navigating the same air space.
I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:
Since this has turned into a total hater-blog, where I just bitch about how awful the world is…I thought a little positivity could be good.
Things I will miss about nyc:
“Grampa, Grampa!” the woman next to me screamed. “Can I come to your bed, Grampa? I can’t sleep.” Silence. Maybe it’s over, I think. “Grampa, please! Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Grampa?”
Her thin frame lay mostly exposed above the white sheet, her wispy grey hair like a halo. A frail arm reaching toward the wall, a bony finger catching for a moment on the ruffle of her diaper. A wild-eyed look of terror and confusion, not to me or the nurse, but just to the world. I knew it well. I recognized it immediately.
“Please,” I pleaded. “I don’t think I can stay in this room.”
“Miss, we don’t exactly have extra rooms lying around,” My nurse quipped. “This ain’t the Four Seasons. You’re lucky you got a bed. Ever since LICH closed, this is how it is. How long you was in the ER, huh? Exactly.” She paused for effect. To let me know I was being a pest. I was ungrateful and probably not empathetic enough. “You lucky you in here. We gonna take good care of you. Now, just relax.” Her tone shifted, perhaps because she remembered I too was suffering. Maybe she could see the look of fear in my eyes, genuine, real, huge. She knew how the hospital functioned. Blood work took half a day, CT scans ordered ‘immediately’ took 14 hours, iv fluids–for a a thirty-something woman exhibiting symptoms consistent with dehydration–8 hours. “You’re gonna be just fine. Just lay back. Call me if you need anything, sweetie.”
She threw in the ‘sweetie’ as a trick, I thought. So I’d let my guard down and so I’d think she was my friend. I pressed the call button immediately.
“Yes?!” a very annoyed voice from a loudspeaker asked insistently.
“Hi, um, yeah. Is there, can I, am I allowed to eat?” I stumbled.
“I don’t know.” The line went silent. “Looks like…no. No eating.”
“I, okay, I”m just…” she was gone.
I lay there, alone, numb from the knees down, my bottom lip still curled and contorted. The stiff, white sheet scratchy against my bare thighs. The neon light humming above my bed. A blue-white glare, hard and intrusive. It’s high-pitched buzzing like a zombie-mosquito, incapable of death, so it drones on, attacking, sucking, blood-letting through the night.
Hospitals are supposed to be places to rest and recuperate, I think. This is hell. This is where people come to be tortured. To humble themselves, to be lowered so far down into the depths of self-pity and shame and fury that they will submit simply because they lose the will to go on. What’s the point? you find yourself thinking. And the next minute you are crying and screaming that you need to get out. One breath of fresh air, the feeling of sun on your skin for just one moment. But, they ask you to wait. To be patient. So you try to breathe and you try to stay calm but every moment in that room–that room with it’s incessant beeps, its flashing lights, its filthy thin curtain, a veil, an illusion of privacy–feels like an eternity. Doctors unannounced, waking you just when you’ve finally drifted off to sleep to deliver, nonchalantly, some upsetting news. To announce a diagnosis, to provide no context, no explanation of process. They give you a card, walk out and in comes another one. With a different title and a crisp new card. Another theory, another acronym. Scrubs come in and poke your belly with needles, they draw vial after vial of your blood with no explanation. Where is all this blood going? you wonder. Voices drift in, stories of other patients with attitude, with too many requests, with some sob story. This is their workplace, you remind yourself. It’s only fair that they should be so casual. It’s natural. Except that people are dying here. And being born. And doing all of the business in between. And, it’s too hard to be reminded that life, outside of your own experience, is continuing without you. Rivers will continue to flow, trains will stay on schedule, emails will be answered, books will be written. And the exact placement of your body–growing or dying– in space has little to do with the order of the world.
Our apartment is wonderful. It is practically perfect. Sure, I could do without the two flights of stairs and I would KILL for some outdoor space. But, come on, it’s New York City. That’s how it goes.
The thing that is a real bummer. And, one that I think I’m justified in bringing up here, is the fact that we stare straight into our neighbors’ house from a distance of about five feet. Some architect had the brilliant idea to extract a few square feet of brick in between adjoining duplexes in order to provide more natural light. Now, this is wonderful in theory, don’t get me wrong. We get bright beams streaming through our kitchen glasses on the sun’s rise to noon. An eastern-facing apartment is a thing of beauty in Brooklyn.
However, an eastern-facing apartment with a large kitchen window that looks directly into our neighbors western-facing kitchen window is awkward at best.
Why haven’t we put up blinds? Well, it’s become somewhat of a stand-off. You want privacy? You pay for curtains. They’re giant panes and they didn’t come equipped with pre-installed blinds like the rest of our windows.
The problem isn’t that we see straight into their world and vice versa — though that is, admittedly, regrettable. The problem is that their lives are too dissimilar from ours for it to be ignorable. They are four, twenty-something women living the single life in New York City. If they were just, you know, another Park Slope family of three making dinner and listening to Raffi while ignoring their mirror images, it would be fine.
I’ve gotten amazingly good at not looking up, just pretending they’re not there. I can stand at my sink and wash an entire basin of dishes without even batting an eye when I hear their girly screeching from a few feet away. I couldn’t describe what these women look like if I had to. If the police came knocking on my door requesting a missing persons sketch I would literally have nothing to offer. “There’s, like, maybe four of them, I think.” How awkward would that conversation be? “Ma’am, your window stares straight into their apartment. You’re telling me you have no idea what they look like? You can’t possibly be serious.” And, I’d be all up on my high horse like, “Hey, man, it’s New York. This is how we live. I don’t get into their business, and they don’t get into mine.” Anyway, I don’t think there is such a thing as a missing persons sketch. At least not for middle-class women living in the city. I’m sure their images are all over the internets. But, you know, if there was…
So, anyway. I had a story I was trying to tell. It required this preamble but perhaps could have done without the whole police-knocking-on-my-door tangent. Anyhow, here we are. So, my kid is in her high chair eating her dinner. And it takes her forever to eat. So, I’ve already finished and I’m at the window, washing dishes. Staring down, into my steely sink when I hear her say, “Mama, you wanna take a bath with me?” And I think, ugh, it is so much more difficult to bathe with her than to just plop her in, real quick-like, and be done with the whole ordeal. Bedtime is already running late, we stayed on those damn swings too long (as usual) and now everything is about twenty minutes behind where I’d like them to be. And then I think, what is wrong with me? Yes, of course you should take a bath with your two-year-old. She is asking you to and there will not be many of these days left. They will pass quickly and without notice. One day very soon she will be a surly teenager screaming that I’ve once again used her special shampoo and when will we get a second bathroom because, uhhhhhggg, life is so hard!!
“Yes,” I quip. “Of course I will bathe with you, honey” As I push the image of her hating me (though, of course it is inevitable) out of my head.
To which she replies, in her most emphatic voice. Voice really being an understatement here. For whatever reason, she decides that these next words should be shouted. Screamed at the top of her lungs for all, near and far, to hear: “Mama, you have a VAGINA?!”
“Yes, sweetheart. That’s right,” I say calmly without looking up, without even turning around. We talk about parts. All our parts. It’s no big deal. I mean, I could do without the snickering of twenty-somethings from across the way but, whatever.
“You got a vagina just like meee?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“And, papa got a PENIS, right?! And, me and you we got VAGINAS?” Her inflection on questions is like an exaggerated slide whistle on it’s way up.
“Yep, that’s it. That’s how it goes,” I say, turning around to look at her like it’s just a regular conversation. Which it is. It just happens to be in front of an audience.
“Except you got a HAIRY vagina and mine’s NOT hairy, riiiiiiiiiiiiight?” she asks, holding onto the last word like a multi-syllabic lyric.
“That is true,” I say, whirling around and swooping her up out of her chair, escorting us both out of the kitchen and into the solitude of our bathroom. Where we can pick up this scintillating dialogue about our genitalia without our poor, horrified and most likely very traumatized neighbors listening in.