going back to school.

This post is dedicated to Cody Thomas, who should have been returning to his classroom this year. I’m honored to have known him for the brief moment I did.

When I was young, I always felt like that kid in the front row waving her hand in front of the teacher’s face, silently shouting “I know! I know!” but not wanting to embarrass myself in front of the class by appearing too eager. Maybe that’s why I became a teacher: I could share my unbridled enthusiasm for dialogue, writing, reading, and creativity without caring how silly I might look. In fact, as a teacher, I’ve found that the goofier I am, the more my students seem to enjoy being in class with me. And yet, by the end of every school year, I am emotionally, physically, and creatively drained. Like my students, I can’t wait for the last bell of the school year to ring so that I can bolt out the door and not look back–for at least a couple of months.

This summer, I relished every moment as fully as I could, in between finalizing a divorce, finishing coursework for my administrator’s certificate, teaching a novel writing lab for middle and high school students, finding and securing enough supplemental sources of income to survive as a single mom, falling in love, traveling, and writing. Despite everything we had going on this summer, or maybe because of it, it felt like one of the best summers I’ve had in years. I laughed a lot, enjoyed time with the kids, saw family and friends, and tanned to a warm golden brown–the true sign of a fulfilling summer vacation.

My chagrin for returning to work this year was punctuated by three days of migraines that increased in intensity so gradually but steadily that I found myself in the ER hooked up to IVs full of drugs–none of which could quell the pain that was shutting down my brain and making it impossible to function. If I am listening to the universe, it’s not hard to hear what my brain was telling me. The thought of returning to the classroom was causing me so much stress my brain was short-circuiting. When I went back to graduate school, I hadn’t been looking to leave teaching. Over the course of my program, though, I found myself thinking less like a teacher and more like an administrator.

As the summer went by, I thought about what moving out of the classroom and into the main office would mean. No more summers off, no more lesson plans, no more piles of papers to grade. While most educators detest the idea of giving these things up in exchange for more parent-student conferences, more student disciplinary issues, more paperwork, more meetings, and more school commitments, the more I think about the business of running a school, the more I know it will be less stressful for me than returning to the classroom. Don’t get me wrong–I love my students (once I get to know them), I love sharing my enthusiasm for reading, writing, and creating, and I love my classroom. Over the last 12 years, I have turned it into a safe, welcoming, and fun space for my students to find respite in an otherwise overwhelming day.

What I don’t love is the way working with young people takes all of my emotional and physical energy. When I am teaching, I find it difficult to think for myself. I don’t have the energy to read for myself, to focus on my own writing, to parent without worrying about checking emails or grading papers. The thing is, teachers may “get summers off,” but during the school year, we work around the clock. Leaving school doesn’t mean the job is done; there is no boundary between home and school, between parent and teacher, between self and work. Teacher burnout and cynicism get the best of us–and, it seems, it is starting to get to me.

So even though I know I will find a new normal, as I do every year when school is back in session, tonight I will stomp my feet and shout in protest at the thought of my alarm going off at 5:30 a.m. Tonight, I want to relish all of the things that I do when I’m not in school, and pout for just a little while longer.