This is what they don’t tell you about in teaching, and no one seems to understand that. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they DO teach how to deal with a student who’s brother is murdered. Maybe I just missed that in my accellerated and seemingly noble attempt to remake education. Perhaps when you actually take classes for your credential, you learn this stuff - as opposed to simply fast-tracking your way into a classroom because they so desperately need science and math teachers.
I used to feel like I was a good writer. Lately I’m not sure anymore. But I’ve never been able to capture my thoughts about teaching in any sort of elegant manor. It always comes out awkward. Incomplete. Borderline incoherent. Rants and raves and sobs and screaming. Fluctuating between never wanting to return and dropping everything just to try one more time.
This story seems to capture what I can’t. The work that you do outside of teaching the subject matter is what really, REALLY matters.