I am like Rambo and education is my
lethal skillset. I tie the thin, dingy red bandana of past successes around my
head. I take a handful of the mud that surrounds my students’ lives and smear
it across my face for effective camouflage (and because I need to taste the
grit in my teeth; it helps me focus.) What was once a Scotch mist of motivation-sapping
moisture has become an intimidating downpour accompanied by the thunder of
administration and the lightening of parents. Adversaries are hidden everywhere
in the jungle. There are a few boons as well. It is no different in a middle
school. A protective mother guerilla is no less dangerous than the parent of a
6th grade girl is. Traps that were set by teachers and parents
generations ago still pack deadly punches. I must tread carefully or end up as
worm food on a smooth, classroom floor, swept nightly.
I
begin at a steady pace. Early on there is a downward pitch to the ground. My
speed increases. My feet and intentions sometimes move faster than my
foresight. This land has grown rocky and uneven. Occasionally I trip and dash
my shins or palms on the vicious ground. Thankfully, my blood goes well with my
khakis and collared shirt. The students barely seem to notice my wounds. That
is good.
Out of the jungle
rises a range of peaks. Memories of rudimentary maps flash before my eyes.
Others have climbed these mountains. Some were still bleeding from their wounds
when they offered me their advice, others look as if they must have flown over
the more difficult aspects of the landscape. They tried to show me what to
watch out for and what not to grab for purchase during my ascent. I remember
some of it, but not all. Like pieces of different maps: incomplete, but enough
to get started, if you are like me.
I scale the
mountains of acronyms, research findings, academic texts, and teaching methods
that my college tenure has exposed to me. I remember many. Some look foreign to
my weary eyes. Regardless, I climb. My arms ache, my fingers are calloused and
bloody from constantly gripping for stability as the mountain quakes. This is
no mountain. This is a volcano. From above, I hear a bone-chilling shriek. I
see it now. A great winged beast circles my position. It is a black mass
against a stained sky. I have heard the creature's name whispered from the lips
of wretched and broken souls who also attempted this very mission. Their eyes
darted back and forth, as they relived their own agony.
The beast, known
by many names, is most frequently called Burnout, the Inevitable.
Somehow, in this
overgrown jungle of life and death, pass and fail, of hope and despair, he has
caught my scent. He circles lower as I press myself behind a boulder of
calmness. My fingers feel for my weapon as I focus on the moments of serenity I
have witnessed it in this mad world.
I remember the
refreshing air that accompanied my students when they wrote. I can hear their
brain cells working together to generate words, sentences, and completed
thoughts. Smiles frequently accompany wholesome self-expression. The energy
flows like a mighty river so long as the path is clear from obstructions,
overanalyzing, and disinterest. These fall from the trees above and inhibit the
creative course of the river. In spite of the obstacles presented by the
constant winds of change in this Pedagogical Jungle, the river can always find
a way through. That undeniable force longs to be free within the minds of my
students.
A shriek
interrupts my reflection.
Burnout circles
lower. It knows where I am and how I am hiding.
I draw my weapon,
remember the cause, and rise. Deep breaths. In and out.
My chance has come. My time is now.
