Locus of Control
Photo by Alex Ivashenko on Unsplash
“Never let them see you cry.”
Ms. Harrison thought of this as the most relevant piece of advice she ever received upon entering the teaching profession. All those tips about lesson plan templates, how to stay organized amidst the chaos, goal setting, using data and standards to drive her instruction, and the importance of parent communication paled in comparison. In the beginning, she was earnest to implement all pieces of advice, especially from veteran teachers and administration. However, if anything had to give, she made sure it wasn’t showing her vulnerability to a group of children in the school setting; she always waited until after all the kids had been dismissed at 3:20 pm to go to her car and let the tears flow.
This wasn’t what she signed up for — the obsession with test scores, unsupportive parents and administration, combative students who saw her as the enemy, and cold, clinical environment. That wasn’t what she was promised when she changed her major from business to education. She was promised she would make a difference in the lives of many, that she was helping to lay the foundation for a love of learning that would propel students toward success in school and life after. She was promised that her work would be meaningful.
She tried her hardest not to feed into any feelings of being a victim. She wasn’t a victim. She had seen kids come to school with no jackets during the winter, unexplained bruises, and bellies rumbling with hunger. Those kids were the victims. Still, sometimes after exceptionally long days when the exhaustion would encompass her whole being, she would sometimes secretly hope to be involved in a car accident on the way to work or driving back. She didn’t want anyone else to get hurt — maybe she slid off the road during a snowstorm into a tree or something of that nature and end up in a coma. That might grant her some rest. It wasn’t just physical rest she needed, it was rest from all the decisions, all the failed attempts for some type of breakthrough. She was stretched so thin that even thinking of what to make for dinner each night almost sent her over the edge.
Outsiders couldn’t understand. She was, after all, just a glorified babysitter who had the summers off and who ended her day when the sun was still out. She never put herself in the position to hear “It can’t be that bad,” so she mostly kept her anguish to herself. In graduate school, the professors loved to make the analogy of the good ol’ oxygen mask.
“Now let's talk about self-care. You can’t take care of students unless you first take care of yourself. It’s like when they make the safety announcement on an airplane: when the oxygen masks are released, you must first put on your own oxygen mask before you can put on anyone else’s. I want you all to remember this as you go out into your schools.”
Ms. Harrison wasn’t struggling to put on her oxygen mask, she was struggling to find her oxygen mask. She tried to speak with the administration about her need for support in a classroom full of 35 kids, many of whom had an individual educational plan or were held back or, quite frankly, just didn’t give a damn about learning or what she had to say at any given time.
“I see,” her principal would say, “It sounds like you need to tighten up your transitions from one task to the next and clarify your expectations. Remember the article we read during the summer professional development course? Just try to implement some of those techniques and I’m sure you will notice quite a difference. I’m here if you need me. Oh and remember, Ms. Harrison, we are really looking to you to bring up this year’s standardized test scores. I know you can do it.”
She was almost insulted that her principal didn’t ask her what she tried — it was just assumed that she hadn’t tried hard enough. And to think that she wasn’t already having anxiety attacks about the dreaded state testing. The answers from the administration were always simple: do what they did in that article. The thing was, she did try those things and more. She tried to create a warm environment with positive reinforcement, hugs, and compliments. She used her own money for treasure box treats each week until she found out that students had picked the lock to her storage cabinet after school to hand out the treasure box components to every kid in sight. She gave up the tangibles and started writing coupons for good behavior and meeting goals with things like sit in the teacher’s chair, switch seats with someone, spend the day with the class stuffed animal, special helper, and more. It worked for the few who were already intrinsically motivated. No silly coupon was enough to motivate the kids who were fully aware that they were on kindergarten reading levels in the third grade. Why would a kid bother when faced with such an uphill battle?
When those things didn’t work she tried to be strict and dole out consequences, like taking time off of recess when students didn’t even attempt classwork assignments (which technically wasn’t allowed, as recess was considered a “non-negotiable” student right. Ms. Harrison always thought it was interesting how the administration guarded the students 15 minutes of free time so fiercely while denying them any other freedom or “right” that children should be entitled to). This just solidified her position as an enemy even more so.
She couldn’t go to any other teacher for help or guidance because they were all just trying to survive the school year themselves. She was linked up with a mentor teacher, but he had only been there half a year longer than her and was also trying to figure out how to navigate a broken system. Besides, the other teachers viewed her as antisocial. She never ate lunch with them and she didn’t go out with them to drink away her sorrows and commiserate. Ms. Harrison was simply overwhelmed and the thought of mustering up small talk during her quick 30-minute lunch or over the weekend was unbearable. She had to search out those small moments of reprieve that often came in the form of eating in silence or reading at home over the weekend.
It was during such a lunchtime that she noticed the staff bulletin board. “Stressed? Overwhelmed? Not sure where to turn? We can help! Call the Employee Assistance Program: Free counseling for teachers in the district. ***up to 4 sessions.” She didn’t immediately do anything with this information. Even if she wanted to try, she wasn’t sure when she would have time. She had a part-time job just to make ends meet. She worked evenings and one day over the weekend at her favorite bookstore (yet another reason why her free time was sacred), not to mention all her other free time that was used to grade, plan, and set goals — somehow the 30 minute planning time included in her class schedule didn’t even make a dent in those things.
So, Ms. Harrison got by each day by dulling her senses, protecting her heart, and her physical well-being (she had been threatened on more than one occasion by parents). At 3:20 she would let the tears of exhaustion, disappointment, resentment, and defeat flow. Sometimes the sobbing overtook her body and she would have to pull over on the side of the road. She didn’t have the guts to purposefully crash her car or try to land herself a stay at the hospital, so she continued to pray to God, or the Universe, or anyone who might listen and have the power, to do it for her. She wasn’t sure about the specifics- whether she just wanted just disappear for a little while or forever.
She realized how crazy this all was, of course. The rational thing to do would be to look for another job. She tried to exit from the school system for a few years. She posted her resume, applied in person, and volunteered at different organizations with the hopes of eventually being hired. Despite her attempts, no one even considered her, except the schools in the area. She couldn’t even get a call back about a tutoring position, despite her background. Each year she would bounce from one school to the next while trying to figure out her next move. At least she had health insurance and maybe even a tiny mustard seed of hope if she looked deep enough. The summers helped to some degree, but it also made her anxious as she realized that time wouldn’t last forever and that soon she would be right back at some school’s professional development course, doing another “data dive” in an effort to analyze test results and try to determine where it all went wrong. Then she would be expected to offer administration some type of answer for why the scores were so terrible, besides for the obvious reasons of pitiful school funding, overcrowded classrooms, the expectation to differentiate and differentiate and differentiate (God she was sick of that word) with no examples to look to, an out of touch administration, and a community who looked at the teachers as failures for not performing the miracles they were promised.
Yes, Ms. Harrison would continue to pull herself up by her bootstraps. “You are not the victim,” she would continue to recite in her head. Being a victim meant she truly surrendered all hope and, although she still prayed to get in a car accident every day on her way to or from school (only affecting her), this would be fate and not by her own hands (unless prayers and wishful thinking did somehow make a difference).
It wasn’t when a frustrated student threw a chair at her and wasn’t given consequences by administration, or when a parent cornered her in the parking lot with a knife visibly tucked into his sock demanding his daughter get a better grade, or the time her principal rated her as an “ineffective” educator despite all her best efforts and hours spent at home in preparation for each week (down to the minute), or even that fact she was volunteered by administration to be part of the social committee that caused her to reach out to the Employee Assistance Program number in order to seek counseling. It wasn’t even the fact that her panic attacks were getting more frequent, as were her prayers for a devastating crash to overtake her. It was the fact that she had given up control to the point where she forgot about the cardinal rule of teaching: never let them see you cry.
She couldn’t pinpoint one thing that caused tears to roll down her face as her cheeks turned red hot during her reading lesson on finding key details on that day. She just knew she had reached a point of no return. There were so many things outside of her control and the one thing she could control — not crying in front of the students — she let go of. The students were shocked, as they had little experience with the teacher’s emotions except for anger and sometimes with the new teachers, moments of hope. They didn’t know what to do with a teacher’s display of sadness, so they did nothing. They were children, after all, who were still trying to identify and control their own emotions. Ms. Harrison quickly busied them with an assignment and sat at her desk. She announced to the students that she was just feeling under the weather (in her haste not realizing that they hadn’t yet covered idioms). She quickly composed herself and carried on with the day.
“I heard you had a moment in reading class,” Mr. Englewood said as he approached her table for lunch. “Don’t worry, it can happen to the best of us. We are human, after all. Though, best not to be too human in an environment like this. Don’t want those little monsters to get the idea that they hold the power and could chew you up and spit you out.”
“Thanks,” she said as she forced a small smile and unwrapped her cheese sandwich with mustard (she didn’t have the time nor the will for grocery shopping, even though she was in desperate need. All those supermarket decisions might make her head explode). She prayed he would get the hint to let her eat in peace. He didn’t and during her 30-minute lunch she listened to Mr. Englewood talk of his 15 years in the educational system and how the only way to survive was simply not to care.
“Forget all that BS you learned in school and all those buzzwords administration loves to throw around. We are against an impossible task. How can you make kids learn who don’t care about learning? Hell, even most of their parents don’t care. Administration only cares for funding purposes. You can only do what you can do. Don’t let it get to you. You come to school, put in your time, and move on with your life when you leave these school doors. Don’t try to make a difference; just try to get through until summer. That’s what I’ve been doing and it has worked for me. Just…don't…care. Hell, if they want me to care, they better start paying me more. Am I right?” he said nudging her on the side of her arm with his elbow.
Ms. Harrison was starting to feel nauseous just as the bell signaling the end of lunchtime rang. She didn’t want to continue getting by like a shadow of herself. She didn’t want to become jaded and stoic, getting through each day by not caring. She didn’t want to forget that these children were living, breathing human beings who were also probably just getting through the school day by not caring (or at least the illusion of such). Unlike Mr. Englewood, these students didn’t always look forward to the lives that waited for them outside of those school doors. Where was their reprieve from the developmentally inappropriate standards and expectations placed on them by both their school and the outside world?
She realized that caring would be painful and sometimes devastating, as she might be setting herself up for never-ending disappointment defeat, but that was all she had left. That was the last thing that was making her feel human and not an educator robot. She wouldn’t take the easy way out and simply stop caring.
Ms. Harrison got into her car as a gentle rain shower began, which was perfect because she was always looking for symbolism in her life. She came up with a plan. She would call the Employee Assistance Program and set up her free sessions. If she needed more, she would see if her insurance would cover her. It was worth a try.
Next, she would get to know her students as whole and complete people who had likes, dislikes, fears, and hopes. Maybe she would go home and create a fun little “getting to know you” survey and she would fill it out, too. She wouldn’t pay attention to the fact that it was the middle of the year. She truly didn’t know who her students were apart from their performance in class — using labels of “high,” “average,” or “low.” She would set up an anonymous box where students could leave her notes about anything they wanted her to know or read (she read about teachers having great success with these boxes). Maybe they would reach out to her, give her a glimpse of their lives, or even ask for her help.
The administration wouldn’t like that she was taking time away from academic instructional time, but that was one area where she really would care less. The administration never had time to come to her classroom even for observations, anyway. Her test scores at the end of the year would most likely still be low, but that was nothing new. She would lay the groundwork for something that wasn’t taught in school when it came to academics: a meeting of the minds in an effort to value each other’s humanity. It was fluffy and far fetched, but maybe she would finally find her own oxygen mask by breaking the rules a little bit and paving her own way. These very small steps would be just the beginning.
With a renewed spirit and confirmation from the now pouring rain, she decided to go to the store to get the materials to make a really fun and fancy “anonymous” box since she didn’t have work at the bookstore that night. No, actually, she would go buy the materials, but let the students help her create it, so it was really theirs. On the way to the store, she would call the Employee Assistance Program on speakerphone and try to set up her first counseling session. It was only 3:30 and she would be able to reach someone until 4:30. Most importantly, she promised herself that if she truly did get to the point where she didn’t care anymore, she would leave the profession immediately, even if she didn’t have another job lined up.
This would be the first day all year she wouldn’t pray for a car accident. This would be the start of her taking back some control.
She set up her phone call on speakerphone, put her cell in the holder hooked up to her dashboard, and started on her way. She had to press quite a few numbers on the main menu to be directed to the Employee Assistance line. She finally got through just as she pulled onto the highway.
“Hello thank you for calling the Employee Assistance Program. May I please have your employee ID? Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
There was a deafening sound followed by complete silence. The rain picked up in intensity as a lightning bolt pierced through the clouds.
When the first responders arrived at the scene they first noticed the copious amount of blood everywhere. The blood was mixing with the rain to create a flowing river of red. It was one of the worst accidents many of them had ever seen and they knew there was no chance the driver would be alive, and if somehow they were, it wouldn’t be for long. One of the new EMTs ran over to the side of the accident site and vomited, as no training had prepared him for the gore. The next thing they noticed was the student papers and lesson plans all over the collision scene, many of them soaked in blood, and some still swirling around in the wind.
Someone or something had been listening, after all.
