Walking Jars

After finishing 17 conferences in the span of three days, I still felt comically exhausted by week's end. Not that I don't stay up late nights (although I actually went to bed this week, so my demeanor was slightly less salty), or grade papers, but hearing parents' stories and meeting many of them for the first time, its any wonder why my students are both mini-scholars and empty, walking jars that are unsealed and ripe for the influence of just about anything.

I smile at kids toting their moms and grandmothers (and the dichotomy between what a grandma will say as opposed to a mom, always with that condescending "I'm-your-mom" look towards their daughters), parents who come together who've been apart, separate conferences for dad, cancelled conferences and the ones that are unexpected walk-ins. The ones that you end up having more of a conversation with all night (which is something I could get paid to do, I realized), and the ones that you pray right afterwards, for God to mend hearts, minds, fix that brokenness.

I stepped on toes too. I take my position sometimes as a politician. I'm out at recess reffing basketball games, umpiring disputes and giving the little ones a platform for their singing, stories hang-ups, gymnastic/jump rope routines and diverting attention away from bathroom breaks (I think if we had outdoor port-a-johns, no kid would want to go inside for a break and they'd spend more time playing. My kid never wants to pee when there's fun to be had.) I want every parent to flood the office with referrals to my room. I want to carry all the babies that come through the office and shake every hand. I know it's all vanity and ego. I've had it since I started teaching. And not that I don't think I need to improve. If anyone is critical of my everyday performance it's me. I'm still reading strategy books, I still cry when I see "Stand and Deliver" and I kick myself five minutes after a lesson for forgetting something or not getting it right. I know it has nothing to do with me. Or at least I'm supposed to know this. God has given me a gift and a platform, a job and a position of authority. Me? Too much to take in.

The week ended with awards assemblies. We rolled away the cafeteria seats and replaced them with about 150 kids. Maybe, 20 parents. I called out their names and watched them form a line next to me. Proud kids. Happy kids. The ones sitting out rarely have a scowl ( a few do, the ones who realize they should have been up there too), but the trick is to get the rest up there by any means necessary. This year, my ego will try again, and God will remind me that it isn't about awards, or me, or the parents who help with homework. Maybe this year I'll learn it.