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.