A Day in the Life of a High School Teacher: Field Trip Day

Today, I got to school early, and your son came into my classroom 20 minutes before the bell rang, as usual. He comes in early, every day, by himself. We talk about running and music and the weekend and movies and life. I saw the look in his eyes when I told him there would be a sub today: I was taking another class on a field trip. I heard him beg me not to leave, that subs just aren’t the same, that they just don’t get him. I felt overwhelming guilt, like I do every single time I leave my students with someone other than me. But I had to leave anyway. So I told him it would be okay and that I would see him again next week.

And then I put on a smile.

Today, I watched your sons and daughters funnel into a bus. I saw the desperation in their eyes as they searched for someone to sit by, for a friend, for a safe place to ride. I watched the brave ones ask to sit next to strangers, and I saw acceptance there.

Today, I sat next to your daughter on the bus. I observed her busying herself with her cell phone to avoid uncomfortable conversation with a teacher. Ten minutes later, she put her phone away, and told me how her dad just came home from the hospital from his second serious surgery. He had cancer. He had half of his tongue removed and skin graphs from his arm and leg. The results were inconclusive. My heart broke for her. I smiled, looked her in the eyes, and told her how desperately sorry I am. My dad has cancer, too. It stinks, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to make it better.

And then I put on a smile.

I watched as your children nervously existed a bus in an unfamiliar location, and I saw their eyes turn to me for guidance.

I saw their hesitation to enter a church that is not their own. I told them to do it anyway. I also saw the embarrassment of a student as I asked him to remove his hat: We are entering a place of worship. He removed it, of course. He was never trying to be disrespectful, he simply didn’t understand the significance of his actions.

I saw them stop, mid-stride, as they entered the room. I saw the awe, the overwhelming awe, in their eyes. I saw them look up at the ceiling, the ornate walls, the gothic painting, the worn out floors. I heard them whisper questions to each other, too afraid to ask aloud. I saw them overcome by art in a way they never thought possible.

Today, I also saw them hide all those feelings. I saw them laugh at the intricacies of a religion they did not understand, scoff at a painting they did not try to see, and downplay the importance of an entire theological foundation.

And then I put on a smile.

Today, your son told me that the cathedral was “cool.” I told him it was more than that. It was an honor to stand where so many hours had been poured into the paintings and woodwork and construction. It was an honor to be where so many lost souls, broken, had prayed for hours. Where people had left their whole selves. Shared their grief. Found answers and hope.

Later, I saw your sons and daughters observe a beginning level ESL class in a refugee help center. I saw your students uncomfortably watch as full grown adults struggled to say “I am.” I heard your daughter ask how long those refugees had been in America. I saw their shock when the answer came: over two months.

Today, I saw your daughter’s dreams change. I heard her work through a new passion, a new life. I saw her perception of herself change as she realized that she would like to work with refugees. As she explained that there was so much hurt in the world. Maybe she could make it better. And I told her that yes, yes she could.

I’ll admit, today I broke down in front of your child. He said that working with refugees would be so cool, and she asked me if I thought it would be fun. I saw her confusion and shock where she saw the tears in my eyes. I heard every side conversation stop, and I felt the pressure of 30 teenage eyes looking at me. Breathlessly. Waiting for an answer. I told your sons and daughters that I simply couldn’t work there. And I gave them the truth: I’m not strong enough. Seeing the faces of these refugees and knowing, knowing the suffering that had to of occurred to bring them here. I’m simply not strong enough to handle that amount of tragedy and injustice and shame and hope and dedication and perseverance.

And, you know what, I saw your son get it. He understood. And not one of them played down the importance of that moment. That moment of real human connection where him and her and me and them all understood, for that one second, the magnitude of it all.

And then I put on a smile.

Today, I overheard your students on the drive home talking about SnapChat and volleyball coaches and weekend plans and One Direction and being too cool for any such mainstream things. All the while, I discussed with another teacher how to motivate boys to read, what to do with my silent student, the need to have them experience the curriculum first hand, and our inability to solve it all.

After the field-trip, your son, whom I haven’t taught for two years, came into my classroom – as usual. I watched as he laughed about his weekend and joked off his grades. I saw him laugh off his recent date rejection. I saw him joke about his insecurities and place himself below his friends.

And, to be honest, I lost my professionalism for just one moment. I forgot my decorum, and I lectured your son. I told him to stop. Stop selling himself short. Stop laughing off every important thing. Stop putting on a show. And when he asked me if I was telling him to put all his eggs in one basket to be discarded, rejected, or destroyed, I said yes. That was exactly what I was telling him. I told him to put everything that he has out there – to not hold anything back. And when it gets rejected and shattered, to pick himself back up and do it all over again. Because then, at least, he will be actually living. He will be true. He will be himself.

Because, in the end, that is what I do every single day. I stand in front of your sons and daughters and I put all of myself out there. I give them everything I have and reserve nothing, nothing. And some days it is rejected and I am destroyed. But I do it again. And again. And again.

And the whole way home, my heart melted and drained and puddled. I broke over your son, over your daughter. I prayed, over and over and over that they would feel confident and strong. That they would be true. That they would admit the power and importance of life and stop downplaying every single thing. Stop playing it safe.

And I cried because in less than one month, my time with your student will be over. They will move on, and I will start over and do this whole process again, and never even know what becomes of your child – my student.

And I put on a smile because I am so incredibly filled by being their teacher.