What Teachers Do
Many Americans are spending this Memorial Day weekend with family and friends, enjoying barbecues, beach trips, and praising the sacrifices that soldiers have made to protect American freedom. I, however, will be doing none of that. Instead, I (alongside a few concerned colleagues) am spending my weekend helping one of my students deal with domestic abuse and homelessness.
Because this is what teachers do.
Being a teacher in America is a constant state of anxiety and contradiction. In some cases, people acknowledge the difficult yet important role teachers play in students’ lives. Some are quick to give a shout out to their favorite teacher at graduation or on social media during National Teacher Appreciation Week; others refer to teachers as heroes, especially in those circumstances in which teachers literally lay down their lives for their students. However, more often than not, teachers are tragically villainized. They are accused of “grooming” students. They are accused of being “obstructionists” when they dare to question decisions handed down by their administration. Teachers’ unions in particular are always noted as the main road block keeping our public education system from being the best it can be. When unions stand up for their members, they are referred to as “uncollegial.” When unions demand decent wages, safe working conditions, and some semblance of collaboration with the administration, they are deemed as lazy complainers.
(Aside: What we don’t acknowledge, though, is that in many cases, unions are their only means of support for teachers because — let’s be honest — Human Resources exists to protect the institution, not the individuals. Teachers know that the first stop is never HR, but the faculty union)
While administrators and elected leaders dump empty platitudes on teachers — even, in some cases, going so far as to patronizingly call us “family” — they neglect to provide the actual, tangible support that teachers need to be healthy, successful, and effective in their classrooms. For example, many administrators failed to provide even a modicum of support — financial or otherwise — to teachers during the transition to virtual learning at the beginning of the pandemic. During this time of great upheaval and transition, many teachers had to learn on-the-fly how to move to virtual teaching and were required to undergo accelerated professional training to prepare for this transition while simultaneously teaching their assigned courses. Were they compensated for this training — even just a small bonus, a small token of thanks? No, but we did get a windbreaker and sunglasses. Meanwhile, administrators gave themselves bonuses as a self-congratulation for navigating the pandemic.
Additionally, throughout the past two years, students have experienced increased anxiety and trauma and, as a result in some cases, trouble completing their schoolwork. Many students took their frustrations out on teachers. But, instead of supporting the health and safety of the teachers, administrators simply gave students a “talking to” and allowed them right back in their classrooms even if they were a danger to themselves or others. Students who cheated on exams, didn’t show up to class, or didn’t complete course work have been allowed to have their poor grades overturned, overruling instructors entirely — making us look weak and incompetent.
While teachers across this country have been on the front line of maintaining order during a time of chaos, dealing with crisis after crisis, and, in some cases, shielding children from actual bullets, they are being told by administrators and elected officials what they can and cannot teach, which students/families they can and cannot support, how much extra work they should be doing for no extra pay, and how to format their syllabi — like teachers are babies, like they are novices, like they haven’t been doing this work for almost all of their adult lives. The administrative and legislative detachment from teachers’ complicated realities is absolutely uncanny.
We seem to forget that without teachers, our communities don’t have schools. Without teachers, our students don’t learn. And, in some cases, without teachers, our students don’t SURVIVE. In my almost 20 years of teaching, I have received more than one student call from jail in the middle of the night because I was the only trusted adult in those students’ lives. I have had more students than I can possibly count come to me to discuss abortion, pregnancy, domestic violence, and rape. I have held students’ babies in my arms while teaching so that mom or dad could take notes unencumbered. I have bought my students food when they were hungry, I have helped them find jobs when they were broke, and I have been a stalwart for many of them well beyond their time in my classroom. I paid one student’s rent throughout the first year of the pandemic because she was laid off from her job and had no income and no one to help her. Almost every teacher I know has one or more of these same stories.
Because this is what teachers do.
I have been involved in so many of my students’ traumas that I am becoming traumatized myself. Not only I am traumatized by their experiences, but I am traumatized by the utter lack of support — and, in some cases, actual disdain — for my profession not only displayed by my own superiors, but also by those writing laws in this country.
So I had to write this essay. I had to. I had to find a way to deal with the trauma of being an educator in America. I had to find an outlet for my frustration at the complete lack of support for educators at my own institution and in America in general. I had to say: Enough is enough.
In the world of my traumatized but fiery imagination, I envision every teacher across this country walking out of their schools and not returning until their administrators and elected officials actually understand the critical role teachers play in the functioning of the education system and the society as a whole. I would ask these heroes to demand more money, to demand smaller class sizes, to demand more trauma-informed resources, to demand more teachers and counselors and fewer administrators, to demand inclusion in decision-making and governance, to demand security and safety in the classroom that doesn’t involve weapons or turning schools into prisons, to demand ownership over curriculum and grades, to demand respect and gratitude, and to demand an end to calling us “family” when we’re really just scapegoats, shields, and soldiers.
We deserve — and should demand — better than this.
