Send Doughnuts
I had a wonderful time working with a roomful of teachers over two days at my Grassroots Workshops last week. During a morning break, I talked with a teacher who was concerned about not being able to reach all her kids, that there was a handful of students who were failing the course, and that she’d tried everything. I said, “But you are reaching the other 25 or 30 kids in your class.” She said, “Please tell my principal that.”
So,
Dear Principal,
Your teachers are working really really hard at this thing called teaching. The role of a teacher is not unlike that of a parent. And if you’re not a parent, then think of being a neurosurgeon or an astrophysicist, being a parent is way harder than that.
It’s practically guaranteed that your teachers have not reached all their students today. But, there is tomorrow and the day after that. Please remember that Teacher A in room 23 may not have reached all her students in the academic sense, but she smiled and said hello to Melissa, gave Joey a granola bar and Jake a sharpened pencil, laughed at Amanda’s joke.
Your teachers need your implicit trust and continued support to thrive. Show them you have their back and give them feedback frequently, but wrap each feedback in kindness, empathy, and humor. This makes all the difference in whether or not they want to show up for work tomorrow.
Some years ago, I had a principal who asked me the same question more than once, like he forgot or didn’t hear my answer the first time. He asked, “Fawn, how do you motivate kids?” I replied, “I don’t know. If I knew the answer, I’d write a book and make millions and quit teaching.” Now that I think about this, clearly he thought I’d given him the wrong answer, therefore he had to ask me again in hoping that I’d learned something over the course of two weeks.
Before I became a parent, I judged all parents. You’re a horrible parent because your child is a brat and disrespectful. It’s your fault that your spoiled kid is ungrateful and entitled. What a loser of a parent you are that your kid fails half of her classes and makes all sorts of excuses while doing so. You must be a bigger asshole than the little asshole you’re raising.
Then, I gave birth to three kids. At one time or another, honestly, more like an extended period of where’s-the-goddamn-light-at-the-end-of-this-tunnel, my own flesh and blood were disrespectful, ungrateful, entitled, jerks, assholes, whiny, rude, arrogant, mean, neurotic.
But, if you had said any of these things about my kids to my face, I’d probably stab you with a fork. I’m equally defensive as I’m protective. Until you walk in my shoes, you have no right to judge me. I’ve been a teacher longer than I’ve been a parent. One role blended into the other.
When an administrator makes a statement or asks a question to imply that his teachers are not working hard enough, it unravels the trust like pulling on a loose thread of yarn. Sure, there’s ineffective hard work, but it’s hard work nonetheless. Teachers want pretty much anything and everything to help us do a better job, but this advice or suggestion cannot come at a cost of making us feel any smaller and more unappreciated.
So,
Dear Principal,
Please stop being evaluative, start being helpful and send doughnuts.
Walking Around House Naked
This framed card hangs right by my school desk.
It’s a reminder that I once would rather scrub toilets for a living than teach unruly teenagers.
My fourth year. Around late September. On a Friday, end of school day. Principal’s office.
Me: I’m not coming back. I’m done.
Principal: What’s wrong?
M: I can’t teach these kids. I hate it here.
P: You just need some time off.
M: Like the next nine months off. I’m sorry. I’m a lousy teacher. I don’t know how to do this.
P: Fawn, I’m not letting you leave. Take a week off. We’ll get you a sub. No worries.
M: You don’t understand. My mind is made up.
P: I understand that you’re really stressed. I see it all the time. You’re working too hard.
M: You don’t know that I cry every Sunday night because I dread the upcoming week. And when I’m driving to school Monday morning, I actually wish to hear news that the school had burned down over the weekend.
P: I’m sorry.
M: Me too. What kind of sick teacher wishes that, right?
P: Is this about a particular kid or group of kids? A parent?
M: No. I just hate them all.
P: I’m still not letting you just quit. Do I have to remind you your husband is still in medical school? You can’t afford to quit, Fawn.
M: I’ll scrub toilets. At least I’ll feel accomplished when I’m done with them. I love the smell of bleach. We’ll manage somehow.
P: Take a week off. Call me next Friday.
M: Fine. I’ll do that. But next Friday I’ll call to remind you to hire someone for the rest of the year.
The following Friday. I waited until school was out to call. I had the whole scene played out in my head: one of our two school secretaries would pick up the phone, I’d ask to speak with the principal, then I’d tell my principal exactly this: Thank you for the week off. Now, I quit.
Me: Hi! This is Fawn. May I speak with [principal] please?
Counselor: Hi Fawn. She was just here. Let me try to find her.
(A good 5 minutes went by.)
C: Sorry, I can’t find her. Can I take a message? Were you absent today?
M: I was absent all week. I really need to talk with her. Can I just wait or call back?
C: I didn’t know you weren’t here last week! Is everything okay?
M: Yeah.
C: Sure, you can wait for her. Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I actually need to talk with you anyway.
M: Yeah?
C: We have to let [a math/science teacher] go at the end of next week. Budget cuts.
M: That sucks!
C: I know. So I had to re-do our whole schedule. Your classes will change quite a bit. Want me to tell you what they are while we wait?
The whole chain of events still befuddles me:
Where were our two school secretaries that Friday afternoon that made our counselor pick up the phone instead? (Her office was across the hallway.)
Where was my principal?
We had to lay off that nice new teacher? After the school year had already started?
Any other staff member could have answered the phone — so why the counselor who apparently had to talk with me anyway because of all the changes to my schedule?
I didn’t have fewer kids, actually had more due to losing one teacher. I didn’t have a different set of kids, they just got shuffled around in my schedule.
Counselor: So, Fawn, sorry for all the changes.
Me: I know. Sad to lose the new teacher. Great guy.
C: Do you just want to leave a message for [principal]?
M: Yes, please. Just tell her thank you and I’ll see her Monday.
I bought the card during that one-week hiatus. It’s more funnier now. I once gave up. This teaching thing was once too hard for me. I sucked that badly at it.
If you ever think that you suck at something, like teaching, then it’s quite likely that you do suck at it. But if your heart is in it, like 100% in it, then you’ll suck less as time goes on. Kindly let your “sense of humor” and “pride in work” and “ability to explain” expand and occupy larger spaces in your teacher brain. Don’t completely do away with “walking around house naked” though — just keep the curtains drawn.