When I arrived to D.C., 22, with my diploma fresh in hand & my spirits high, I never imagined how touching, stressful, and exhausting my first year teaching would be. I was in a new city. My job was to educate children. I no longer was a college student. All at the same time. What a shock. To this day, I sympathize with all those twenty two year olds & the moment they will have-in which they realize life after college has begun & its a hiccup and growing pain, simultaneously. And although this feeling evolved into a new exciting phase of life, I spent many evenings, that first year, waiting for the 42 bus on the darkened corner of 16th and Upshur missing college & those now less familiar days of feeling normal (without.bags.under.my.eyes.).
Many of the teachers at my school were first years too & nobody was from D.C. We took refuge in one another. Many regards, these relationships, helped me grow and appreciate the sheer lovely moments I found within the chaos.
Each day, that first year, was this challenge-learning how to manage a classroom and meaningfully instruct a class of needy 9 year olds. I kept wondering when my mentor was going to come. I graduated from The University of Iowa and had high expectations about these kinds of things. It only made sense to me that a mentor would surface for a first year teacher like me.
I knew I was teaching in an urban school. Yet, understanding this didn't change my feels of dismay. I was alarmed that there were no purposeful workshops for teachers. The materials were lacking for children. I had a bucket next to my rocking chair, where brown, murky water leaked from the ceiling steadily, all.day.long. My students needs weren't being met by the district. Weeks would go by, months and finally I was not dismayed anymore. I was mad. Where is my damn mentor! The district kept saying I'd get one. Soon the leaves changed, falling gradually until the trees outside my classroom window sat barren. As Christmas approached, the mild winter snow covered our school black top. Leaning back in my chair, feet resting on a pile of papers, my window cracked open, I listened to the shrieks & thrills of children at recess. Crunching on an apple, I sat there, waiting.
Finally March arrived. At this point, I knew I was going to make it. The sun had begun to emerge again. I had my routine down by now-in some form. I knew my students better than I knew myself. Their sighs, stomping feet, a surprised smile, the sagging stance of a child on a Monday morning, or the way they looked at me-squinting hard, lips pierced- when math grew confusing. I had tutored countless hours, visited their homes when phone calls were not returned. Wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when my student brought me a Foot Locker gift card for the holidays. Later I found out she had snagged it when her mom was at check out-thinking that the card already had the $50 on it & stuffing it into her coat, because she was 8 and didn't know that it wasn't okay to take gift cards, (that you had to put money ON) even if its for your teacher on Christmas. It was the succession of these details that made me get through. Even if it was still a struggle.
So it was a typical spring day when it happened. I was teaching a lesson out of the reading basal (which I no longer philosophically believe using) and we were reading a story about a boy who goes rocking climbing. Naturally, my students, many who had never left their neighborhoods or city- looked up at me with glossy eyes, flipping the pages of the big thick green books resting before them on wobbly desks. I think we were in the middle of memorizing vocabulary terms, that they couldn't make meaningful connections with-or probably find the need to use. Words such as: descent, avalanche, fixed rope, or belay.
It was then. My mentor walked in the room. She had dark and flawless skin & perfectly set hair resting at her chin. Probably in her early 40's. She strolls in with a notebook in her hand. Sitting down in the back, she looks up and smiles big and gives me a little wink. As if we've eaten together in the teacher's lounge or shared ideas during early staff meetings. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or relieved. I was in the middle of the word belay-and my students were grappling with the story. One boy raised his hand and asked what the point of rock climbing was-and that it sounded stupid. He asked if Arkansas-where the character lived, was real close to DC? And was this place-with mountains- a different country because he didn't know such a thing existed in America? Sighing, the mentor begins scribbling down in her notebook. So many questions. Such lack of background knowledge. The book was probably 2 grades above most of my students reading ability. The words on the page running together before them in a complicated mess. I marched through the lesson, page by page. Objective by objective. We tirelessly filled out worksheets about the story that held no meaningful attachment to the student's understanding or lives.
When it was all said and done, when the bell had rung and the students were long gone; the mentor and I sat across from one another, as the sun set behind us. The mentor had a name, but I don't remember.
-I'm sorry its taken me so long to come by, she says then.
-My case load is extensive and its just been impossible trying to visit regularly with my list of first years.
I look at her then. She has pure eyes & she smiles showing off those pearly white teeth. I think about how it's really not her fault-its the system. I bet the mentor has a husband & little house and a couple kids who go to DC Public Schools. She probably feels guilty, because I imagine she likes to be home in time to make dinner-but often isn't. The mentor seems like one of those people-who would care about such things.
So then I nod at her and say, -Well do you have any suggestions for me?
I blink quickly, awaiting the answer, ready to suck up anything she had to offer.
Yes she says, glancing over her notes, chicken scratches all over her page.
Remember, Emily, she says then slowly-YOU are driving the bus. The children are the passengers.
Make sure you teach in a way that shows them this.
That is all she says. Then its time to go. The mentor came back a couple more times. But did it matter? Then she was gone, just as quickly as she came.
I did figure out how to 'drive the bus' but it was later mentors, colleagues, my personal quest, and years of experience that helped me arrive. I made it through my first year & six years later I have evolved & fallen in love with teaching 1,000 times over.
I remember sitting with one of my colleagues, Jen, from that year, & our rooftop deck, an early evening, drinking a glass of wine. We laughed at stories about our students, who had just performed in the school's end of the year talent show. Turns out they really knew how to sing. The year had come to an end.
As we overlooked Rock Creek Park, it was then, I realized-the mentor I was waiting for-was everywhere, in bits and pieces floating all around me. Laughing, we toasted our pinot noir and sat side by side in our beach chairs, looking out, beyond.
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