Laminated Lamentations

Happy Labor Day Weekend! I hope that the long weekend observing the nation's laborers brings each of you some reprieve.

Re·prieve/rəˈprēv/: to give relief or deliverance to for a time.

My prayers lately have often centered on this concept. A month into my second year of teaching, I finally received my first paycheck. What the final August bills didn't swallow, a surprise trip to the veterinarian did. On the same day of my first paycheck of the school year, it was gone. Like many other educators, my accounts have become comfortable resting on fumes or less since the summer began. I've learned how to stretch pennies for weeks at a time. Even with a second job, having major financial goals with inconsistent income to pursue them has been a challenge. I've learned that I'm not alone; so many people, other teachers, professionals, and even my cat's vet, have told me that they're facing the same thing. On one hand, it's a relief to know that I'm not crazy or alone; but on the other hand, it's also disheartening that so many of us are feeling the same things. I'm faithful that time will bring some relief, but some days, it's hard to not feel like I'm drowning.

Instead of focusing on that, though, I want to keep the spotlight on teachers. It's easy to draw conclusions about teaching from the outside in, but now that I've been at this for a year, let me offer some perspective from the inside out. A teacher isn't just a teacher. A teacher is a classroom manager, content facilitator, communications specialist, interior decorator, file organizer, student relations analyst, mediator, advocate, unofficial therapist, parent liaison, moral coach, morale coach (yes, they're different), professional worrier, and so much more. Some are drawn to this work while others find themselves in it by surprise. Regardless, nobody who cares about what they're doing in this job is just a teacher.

Think about the best teacher you ever had and your favorite classroom; the room that was well decorated, warm, welcoming, and where the teacher always had everything that you needed. Think about how much you loved visiting that room every day. There may have been cool string lights or posters. There was probably a seemingly endless supply of everything a student could ever need: pencils, pens, highlighters, paper clips, glue sticks, sticky notes, scissors, spare folders, books, binder clips, magnets, paper, and the list goes on. I bet it was all separated into neat bins and organizers with everything clearly labeled. There was a rhyme, rhythm, and system that made it all work together for your good.

Who do you think supplied those items? It probably wasn't the school or the district. Most likely, it was the teacher. The same teacher who was available for your academic or emotional needs, or who might have let you use their microwave or mini fridge  (that they also bought) for your lunch. It was the same teacher who cared about every student on their roster, even the ones who didn't hesitate to say how much they "don't give a fuck." The same teacher who scoured school supply sale ads for the best deals or paid for a storage unit to house their classroom items over the summer; whose spouses and partners took a few days to help them set up their classroom and spent the school year listening to its stories. By the end of the year, their support system could recount the classroom's triumphs and challenges as if they were present. It's the same teacher who inherited some of their items from seasoned colleagues and passed some on to others; the teacher whose classroom stood as a model for the power of community.

Maybe it was the teacher who taught you life lessons between the ones in textbooks and made a cinderblock room look and feel like something else. Similarly, they took every student from every background and tried to make them feel like somebody. The teacher who turned your favorite classroom into a well-stocked safe haven was the same teacher who persevered through PD, active shooter training, meetings, deadlines, pubescent attitudes, and their own life, to make you and your peers believe in your own ability to succeed; to live instead of survive; to thrive. They smiled as they poured into you every day regardless of what state you arrived in, sometimes with an overdrawn bank account while waiting for that first paycheck at the end of the first month of school. Before you talk or type about someone being "just" a teacher, think about your favorite teacher and classroom. Then ask yourself, How long could I walk a mile in their shoes? 

La·ment /ləˈment/: to express sorrow, mourning, or regret for often demonstratively

None of this is said with a spirit of complaint. It is all written with an air of new understanding that can only come from experience. These are real things that real teachers go through from the certified, tenured teachers to the substitutes holding many districts together. Yes, they are superheroes in plain clothes, but they're humans, too. And they work harder on most days than some folks earning a whole lot more do in a week. The title of this post isn't about whining or weeping, it's about voicing grief for the respect that people in this profession often don't get; that's why so many have chosen to leave.

Honor them with the respect they deserve. Be a light. Be kind. Donate something off an educator's wish list or buy them a coffee if you can. Do whatever you can to support them in this effort of raising the next generation (because let's be honest, in a generation of kids that arrive to school increasingly unraised, teachers are having to do that, too). Stop judging situations that you don't know because it's easy to talk about teachers, but it's not easy to be one. Don't speak on what you don't know.

Stay gracious. #StayKultured

"Pay them teachers like they senators."

- Kirby (Song: Miss Black America)

P.s. Send a teacher some laminator sheets...we always need them.