Fear of "What's Next?"

A student, when I asked what I should write about, said, "school. Write about school." I told her I'd have 750 words on it in twenty minutes but it took twenty-three to compose the first draft of this and give her a copy. She read, shrugged, and went back to reading Ellen Hopkins. In school I'm not looking for applause. Connections are tentative and take time. I was happy to write on her topic. School is something I've thought about a lot of late. I'm thinking how school might, after forty-five years, be the wrong place for me. It may be time to graduate.

The toughest part of graduation isn't passing the classes and tests. Hell, I went K through twelve with so few problems that the few I still recall seem laughable now. Even after failing out of college, I got over worrying I might never graduate enough in three weeks to start school again. Three graduations later I had my masters degree and that was that. Getting to graduation was the easy part for me.

The hard part came after graduation when I had to answer the question that keeps me up nights: what's next? Those two words and question mark are the signposts of my anxiety. I've stayed in teaching largely because I fear answering that simple question. I don't know what's next. Not knowing freaks me right out.

Some people who have worked in schools for decades are still surprised when some seniors sabotage graduating by failing a class, not coming to school, and dropping out. "How could you fail this close to graduation? Why didn't you do the little work that was left? What's wrong with you?" I feel the answers to all these questions somewhere above my right eye and deep within my upper chest up near my neck. We get scared not knowing what's next and don't believe we will ever figure it out.

But isn't dropping out just as scary? I suppose, but kids often have jobs slinging fast-food or roofing for their friend's uncle. A few have kids already or a true love's name tattooed on the bicep. School's questionable promise of leading to a better what's next? becomes too much and they push away from all that, go deeper into the job working the grill or hauling shingles. They trust in the illusions indelibly inked on their skin. They play it tough — I ain't scared of nothing, yo. I know what I'm doing.

At community college I got a vague idea about being a teacher. While tutoring a kid, I thought, I'm pretty good at this. That was the sum total of my thinking on the issue and I've followed that vague idea for thirty one years. It was such a relief to know what's next that I went with it like the answer had come from a burning bush or straight out of the grey sky. I didn't question it as I applied to a teacher's college, got my master's, and then went out looking for a teaching job. I didn't question it at my first full-time job even when I got fired, or at my second when I burned out, and it wasn't until seven years into my third job that I even considered leaving teaching. That was eleven years ago.

I'm one of those teachers who just can't learn.

I've been a pretty good teacher and enjoyed some of the work, especially in my first years. I've studied the craft and helped others learn it. I've written more pages about teaching than I can count. Teaching has been good to me and I've been good to it, but lately teaching has gone bad.

I've defined myself as a teacher for so long that it feels odd to consider being something else. If I'm not a teacher, what am I? That question leaves me feeling worse even than what's next? Somewhere Walt Whitman whispers, "I am large, I contain multitudes." No, Walt doesn't whisper or hide. He's banging on his chest outside my window and shouting it into the wind. All the while he's looking at me.

I have to give some thought to what's next. There are bills to pay and even if there weren't, I'd still want answers. Certainly I'll write. I'll always write. But writing for myself or having a few people read my blog isn't enough. I want more. Why is that?

It's what I feel called to do. I'm embarrassed using that word. Called? Have angels come down from on high? Am I hearing voices? I say I'm called to write because there's nothing I want to do more, no push I feel as strongly, and nothing else I have wanted to keep doing for nearly all of my fifty years.

I was supposed to be writing about school here, but I've done the assignment wrong, skipped out of class, moved on to something else. It's like I'm already gone.

That was the end of the draft I wrote for my student. I didn't want to tell her that I'm four years away from the minimum age of retirement and here I go, dropping out. I'm not supposed to say things like, the hell with graduation. I'm supposed to be all about staying in school, following their rules, and going along with whatever I'm told is next. It's frightening to contemplate what's next, but it's better for me than staying in school. She may have already figured that out. Most of my students learn a lot faster than I have.

Day One In The Schools

I remember my first day at Eagle Hill Middle School, a place I didn’t want to be. A new school was nothing I wanted. No, I wanted to be back in the small parochial school I had attended since kindergarten, but Dad had bought a funeral home and so we moved to the suburbs. I entered Eagle Hill about six weeks into fifth grade and everything about it seemed wrong. It felt especially wrong to be walking through that strange and giant place. I was scared.

When I got to Mrs. Maloff's fifth grade class and suffered being introduced to the class, I put on what I hoped was a brave face. I couldn't let anyone know how terrible I felt. It felt imperative to fit in from the get-go even if I could tell that they all dressed differently and soon learned that most of them had been together since pre-school. When the teacher asked me to sit in a certain chair, I did. As the class got to work, I did the work too. In math class the teacher handed out multiplication practice. I finished that sheet in a minute. These were the choices I made in order to let them know I was serious, someone to notice and appreciate. I wanted to be someone with whom to be reckoned and so I played that role.

Today is Mikael's first day in our school. His dad didn't buy a funeral home or move him to the suburbs. Mikael was sent to us from his home school for various reasons, none of them especially good, and because we are the school version of the Island Of Misfit Toys. When he came to my classroom from social studies I saw a red welt over most of his forehead. I knew a lot about him from just that.

I'm no Sherlock Holmes but have been doing this alternative education thing with at-risk kids long enough to have figured out a few things. It wasn't abuse — those marks are usually hidden and kids cover them well. No, I thought, he's a sleeper. He came in and moved toward a chair without making eye contact. I went toward him slowly and at a slight angle, held out my hand and said, "I'm Brian." He muttered his name, limply shook my hand for a second, then sat at a desk and put his head down on the table. His hood was up and I saw his hands under the desk pull the strings tight and closed, leaving only his forehead exposed and resting on the desk. He folded in on himself and went to sleep or pretended to.

Ever seen a turtle go into its shell?

I don’t know exactly what to expect of Mikael, but kids react a couple different ways to traumatic changes such as coming to a new school. I showed off my abilities. Mikael went into hiding and hibernation. We both announced ourselves on entering the new classroom and both wanted people to think that they should take note of and not trifle with us. We both were scared. I'm fifty years old, so I can admit that. He might need a little while.

What do you do with a kid like this? Well, first you realize that there is no kid like this but there is a kid doing this. It's an action, putting his head down, done by a person I don't know yet. I nodded a lot, gently invited and cajoled him to join us, then let him be. He kept his head down and went to sleep. My goal was to be a ghost in this situation, to give him nothing against which to push back. I will wait and see what he decides to do, how he wants to present himself, and who he might be. For the first day I was content to have him head down, showing me that I can't make him do anything.

It’s not my place to make him do certain things, act in any one way. That’s up to him. I invite but don’t have the power to make his decisions. I'm curious what his decisions will be and how long he'll let that red welt announce how he is.

Penultimate

It's the second to last time I'll grade the Regents exams in this job. Penultimate, I say to myself as I get out of my car in the school's parking lot. It's a minute and a half before I'm required to be there. I've gotten good at timing these things so I'm not early or late. Arriving late might lead to discipline and more contact with management. Arriving early would have me here longer than absolutely necessary. Nearly eighteen years on this job I've learned what does and doesn't work out. Penultimate, I say again. Today and again in June, then I'm done.

Inside, maybe waiting to see who shows up when, is the principal, the third in two years, borrowed from another division which he also has to manage. I say hello to him and the vice principal. The vice principal is a guy with whom I get along. I used to work here in the afternoons and he appreciated my ability to take care of things in the classroom, to keep most of the kids from roaming the halls, and to connect with kids. He gives me a hearty good morning and says that Regents grading is down the hall in the usual place. Thanks, I tell him. I say good morning to the principal, calling him by name. He almost nods. Oh well. I go down the hall wondering. Is he stressed out, stretched too think like the rest of us, freaked out by Regents exams? Or is it me? Could be. I'm not exactly beloved by management.

Whatever. I've got Regents exams to grade. I go down to the room and the usuals are there. The scoring leader who wishes I was scoring leader. The guy who has my old job. A couple others who are nice but don't factor much into my thinking. It's really just the scoring leader, the other guy, and me. We know the routine. We've done this together going on nine years. We make it work.

The morning begins as always with waiting. Tests haven't been delivered. Not everyone is here. There's no hurry. We can grade the tests in a few hours and never run late. There's coffee and chit-chat. I wait a few minutes before telling them that I'm on my way out. They look curious, maybe suspicious. I'm not coming back next year, I tell them. The other guy nods. He gets it. He asks what I'm going to do. I smile. I don't know. He nods again. He gets this too. The scoring leader says, you're not really, but changes tracks and says she can't blame me. She laughs and says, but now you'll never be scoring leader! I nod. It's a heavy blow, but I'll bounce back.

Grading the Regents isn't a terribly intellectual activity. It's straightforward and comes down to organization. It takes a full day only because it's poorly organized. The three of us are grading machines by now. The youngsters have to be taught how to grade. There would be more old-timers but management can't hang onto teachers. Most of the teachers we train to grade these things are gone in two or three years. Many years we start if not from scratch close enough to it to slow things down. That and no one listens to how things should be done.

Years ago I wrote a plan for collecting and organizing the exams each of school. It would require an extra five minutes at the school but save us at least an hour. The scoring leader suggested some revisions and took the finished plan to management. It was good stuff and would have also worked for other departments. We sent the plan and never heard back. The scoring leader, a few years back, asked if we should send it again. I probably smiled. I may have laughed. We decided against it.

Once the tests arrive we do the prep work. This is easy for the scoring leader, the other guy, and me, but takes a bit more for the newbies. By the time we are ready to grade I've been in the building ninety minutes and am wondering again why we show up on time. I don't love having my time wasted even when I'm on the clock and getting paid. Then again, I'll do this one more time and be done. The thought doesn't make my complaints disappear but they sure do shrink. I ask the other guy if he's ready. We read most of the essays because we can and it's just easier that way. He says, sure. We're always ready.

The scoring is uneventful. The newbies do their part. We do ours. Once the tests are all graded, I start going through all the test papers checking that we have all bubbled, initialed, and printed our names on every test. I worked through each school's stack of tests, correcting the mistakes, counting to be sure all the exams are here, putting them in order. Once checked, I straighten the stacks and get them set for the scantron. The scoring leader asks again, how are you not the scoring leader? I give her my usual look and she shrugs.

The other guy mentions how detail-oriented I am. The scoring leader says, you're so careful about all the little things. Mr. Organized. I remember the instructions I wrote for this process which were lost in transmission or discarded out of hand. I like systems that work. I know how to create those systems, implement them, and help people own them. I just want to get it going. I'd prefer not to be scoring leader. I'm happy to be of use to her. If I organized the whole thing, she would happily administer it and we would all work more deeply and in more satisfying ways.

I've had these thoughts every time. Think Charlie Brown trusting that Lucy won't pull the football away. And every time I end up on my back with Lucy looking down calling me a blockhead. Rats.

I had a thought this time that we should list the schools on the white board and cross off each section that's done. It would help us track where we're at and what needs doing, saving us from searching for what comes next. I mention it to the group and they agree we should do that in June. Then I think, one last time, man, and you're free. It's a good feeling. I lean back. The tests are graded but we have some more waiting time. The system is backed up somewhere down the line. That's fine. It's early and we'll be out soon enough. I think penultimate again, repeating it in my head, counting the letters. Six consonants and five vowels, eleven letters in all. This penultimate time is almost over. Next time will be the last. By then I'll be days from my last in this job. I suppose such a thing just has to be called the ultimate. It sure is starting to feel that way.

Diagnoses & Cures

For as long as I have known her, my wife's eyes have itched. In college I remember her enjoying a good eye rub the way a dog enjoys a belly rub for as long as you'll give it. There were times when her groans of pleasure as she rubbed her eyes were almost obscene. Her eyes, almost always behind glasses or capped in contact lenses, have never been kind to her though I've always found them lovely, penetrating, and warm.

Lately though her eyes just hurt. Something has been really wrong. After rubbing she clenches them closed, grits her teeth, and shakes her fists, pain radiating from the sockets. Often, reaching to rub them, she catches herself and its as if she's tying herself to the mast. Must not rub, she tells herself. The pain and burning go on and on.

We had a snow day this week. She and I are paid to teach and did the usual dance of having a surprise day off. I sat down to write (trying to write my way out of teaching) and she grabbed her phone, called the eye doctor, and asked for an emergency appointment. They had one that morning and she took it, got ready and went out into the horrible cold.

She has long figured she's allergic but a downside to living in Syracuse is that we don't have the best doctors. So far no one had determine that she is allergic to anything. But just look at the skin all around my eyes! she says. The doctors shrug and leave her worrying that she's making it all up, that she's weak, or that this is just bad luck. She knows it's not make believe but hasn't found any help.

At the appointment, the eye doctor figured it out: contact lenses. She is allergic to the contacts she has worn nearly every day. They've aggravated her condition like tearing at a scab every day. The doctor prescribed drops, daily (disposable) lenses, and a return in a few weeks. We picked up the prescription at Wegmans and she started on the drops right away.

Oh my God, she said. My eyes don't itch. They don't hurt.

There weren't the moans of her eye rubbing days, but the relief and wonder were a magic to behold. One trip to the right doctor, a few drops, and already relief. So simple yet so elusive.

---

I have taught in the same school system since 2001 and felt it to be the wrong place at least since 2006. Sunday through Thursday nights I get maybe five hours sleep and wake often, sometimes restlessly shifting from two until four in the morning when I finally get up to write. I wear a nightguard at night because I have ground my teeth down measurably. Since September I have gained up to fourteen pounds. I've seen my therapist every two weeks for more than a decade because I feel anxious and removed from real contentment and balance. I sink regularly into depression, sometimes for weeks.

I feel these things except when school is on break. Summer, I'm a healthy man. Christmas, February, and April breaks I'm a happy man. On the weekend I'm almost happy and healthy but the school week looms large and I cannot come all the way down from anxiety. This seemed like regular life.

My new dentist mentioned my grinding. I asked, "any ideas what I can do about it?" He said, "reduce stress?" I rolled my eyes and, now that I think of it, clenched my jaw. I'm clenching now. A previous dentist suggested a glass of whiskey before bed. There doesn't seem to be enough bourbon in all of Kentucky.

No amount of rubbing makes it any better.

Two weeks ago, writing an assignment from a book, I decided to quit my job. It won't take effect for a few months, but I won't go back next school year. I felt better. Suddenly. Measurably. That feeling surprised me enough I stopped writing and sank warmly into that feeling. The clouds parted. Blue sky. Sunshine. Warmth.

I told my wife and kids. I told my brother and mother. I told friends. I told colleagues at school. This is it, I said. I revised my resignation letter. Each mention of my plan was frightening but leavening. I felt myself rising, buoyed up toward the surface. I ordered business cards to hand out at my next writing conference and will no longer introduce myself as a public school teacher affiliated with that job. Every step felt like a release, a benediction, a healing.

Oh my God, I think. I'm not filled with dread. I don't hurt.

Friday night I read Dani Shapiro's Devotion until I was tired enough to turn out the light. My wife dropped medicine into her eyes. "How does it feel?" I asked. She said, "it burns a little, but the relief—" she shook her head and smiled. I closed my eyes. My thoughts drifted away. I was quiet. The night was still. I slept through the night and rose Saturday morning ready to write, feeling no pain.