Second Helpings

Second helpings are a perpetual mixed bag of emotion—the fleeting corporeal pleasure of more food versus the knowledge that you are doing the opposite of losing weight just for more of the same. Sexual seconds are also a mixed bag, sometimes a happy improvement from the first and sometimes an unpleasant realization that the first should have been the last. The second drink is typically a good idea, but is often the scapegoat for the less advisable third, fourth and so on.  My second year of teaching, in its fledgling third day, is far more straightforward than seconds of aforementioned basic pleasures.  My second-year of teaching is an undeniable improvement on the first. 

The director of the teaching program from which I graduated in Boston shared in an email yesterday that the first day of his second-year teaching was the best teacher-high he ever experienced.   While he has hundreds more highs from which to draw, so far I agree: It’s the highest I’ve felt in the classroom.

I had it good last year. Thanks to many long Saturdays in Boston, I was prepped in classroom management.  I was painfully familiar with the feel of 5:15 am on a snowy Monday morning.  My preparation far exceeded the TFA summer institute, and I’d already quaked under the eerie pressure of 48 expectant eyeballs on me.  To supplement what I had going into my first year, I landed in a school that is high-functioning and supportive in a way that unfortunately does not resemble all charter schools.   Everyone had my back. Really, I had it way too good to complain. 

And yet.  Being a first-year teacher sucks in a lot of unavoidable ways.  There are things you must endure that every educator before you has also endured—an empathy that improves very little. I was constantly confused, a step-behind my colleagues when we discussed school procedures, schedules and expectations—a never-ending game of catch-up, a bitter learning curve.  Despite everything, if a kid was making farm animal noises it was most likely in my class.  Teenagers sense fear and were two steps ahead of every misstep I took.  As a person who tends to be pretty type-B about things, I felt a new sense of pressure. I charted new terrain like a partially-prepared Marco Polo. 

Starting professional development three weeks ago was awesome. I knew everyone’s names; I knew how to finesse the copy machine and my document camera; I knew which novels kids would adore and abhor.  While not easy by any means, there’s no underestimating the confidence of the familiar. I stepped into class on day one and felt my muscles loosen rather than tighten; perhaps, I would not have to reapply deodorant by 9 am.  I relished a sense of easy confidence, a complete 180 from a year ago. I made lame jokes and turned my back to 25 kids without once fearing revolt.  When I fumbled, I laughed and let the kids laugh with me.   The class ended with positivity and confidence. Destiny told me reading class was her favorite of the day. 

I know a good high when I get one and, baby, I’m a kite.