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.

Rules Of The Game In The Schools

Let me tell you a sad story.

Frank, a student who has been out of school for months, came to see me. At first, I had no idea why. He asked for "anything that can get me at least an 80 in this class." Then I understood. Sadness came over me as it always does when this happens. And this always happens. 

My school, like almost every school I know, is primarily focused on kids passing classes and graduating. The lowest grade we are allowed to give for the first three quarters is a fifty. Thus Frank, when he misses an entire quarter, still receives a fifty. There’s also a mandatory final exam in each class weighted as a kind of fifth quarter. This is all designed so the Franks can pass. I know of no requirement for seat time in New York State. I will gather the work for the past quarter, give it to him, grade what he returns, and likely put a passing grade on his report card. This is the sad part of the story.

Frank is a good enough kid for someone whose home life is completely fucked. When he's bad, he's bad, but mostly he's more of a houseplant taking up some space, head down, phone out, waiting for the bell. Today, he was energetic, saying, "I can do this, I can do this." He probably can. 

The sad part is what he’s being asked to do which doesn’t have much to do with learning. It turns out that learning doesn’t have that much to do with grading. Grades, honest teachers will tell you, are mostly about work completed. (Really honest teachers admit that grades also have to do with race, gender, parents, and economics.) Frank is required to do the work but not to learn. 

In the past I would have blamed my school, but it's not my school’s fault. To quote Pacino in And Justice For All, "The whole system's out of order!" But it's largely okay. Kids who play the game do well either by learning or just doing the work. Kids who don't play, usually fail, but some like Frank wise up near the end and take a bus to the marathon's finish line because there’s no rule saying they can’t.  

To be honest, when Frank came to me today I rolled my eyes and felt myself getting upset. But I remembered the game we’re playing, gave him some work, and when he hands that in I’ll give him more. After Frank left, a kid asked, "doesn't it piss you off when a kid can blow off the whole year and you have to pass him?" I smiled and recited a line I have taped beside my desk: 

"I have no thoughts about that which I care to express at this time." 

This is the game we play in schools. It's a sad story for students, schools, and society, but that’s how schools are. As for me, I'm reminded of the scene in Bull Durham when they are going over cliches: "I'm just happy to be here, hope I can help the ball club." I don't make the rules; I just play the game. Sad story, but it's all true.