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Spring 2000
People doing things for the first time act unpredictably, a notion all the more true for teens and teachers. Together the two create a volatile mix.
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By
Julia
Sommer
Brooklyn International High School
New York
hen
I reflect on my first 90 days of teaching in the New York City public
school system, I think I understand why every teacher seems to hurtle
through an explosive first year. People doing things for the first time
act unpredictably, a fact that is all the more true for teens and teachers.
The two at once create a volatile mix.
orking
in a high school, I have the daily opportunity to witness teenagers experiencing
"firsts." Some firsts will one day seem insignificant, like the overachieving
student who fails a test or the socially awkward student who finally tells
a joke that others find funny. Other firsts will leave indelible impressions
on these young people. One of my students got his first A on a paper that
he revised five times. Another gave birth in November to a baby who died.
A third student ran away from home last weekend.
hese
firsts–my own and the students'–dart past me in a continual
blur of vignettes. I fear that within a year or two, when the routine
is familiar and I have time to analyze the vignettes, they will have lost
their poignancy. Like a traveler in a foreign country, I want to document
the smallest details, but there isn't time or mental space, and once there
is, I will no longer have fresh eyes.
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know I am one of the luckier ones; few love their jobs as I do. I know
first-year teachers who are islands in a haze of chalk dust and a sea
of desks, with little support from a staff of jaded, soon-to-be retirees.
My situation is entirely different. I teach Humanities to students aged
14-21, from 47 different countries. Brooklyn International High School
serves a population of recent immigrants who, upon matriculation, score
in the lowest 20th percentile on the state's English language assessment
test.
hile
my students are sophisticated in their understanding of the social ladder
on whose bottom rungs they rest, their innocence generally exceeds that
of a typical urban adolescent. They were recently villagers in China,
refugees in Kosovo, farmers in Nigeria, or housewives in Bangladesh, among
others. Despite their drastic deficiencies in reading and writing, the
majority are impressionable and motivated.
ith
only 75 students in four classes, I have gotten to know each one well:
Lida's head is on the desk because she battles insomnia. John is in a
good mood because he got his green belt in Karate this weekend. Manuel
wants to spend the period in the nurse's office—a wish not unrelated
to an impending conference between his teachers and his father.
he
most surprising moments have mostly been the ones that were least related
to academics. During a drama rehearsal recently, one fourteen year old
student feigned illness to avoid participating. When I asked her the source
of her sickness, she replied, "I need to think!" I managed to elicit from
her the mysterious statement, "I saw something on the sixth floor!" After
much prying, it turned out that what she had seen was a boy in her class,
who had, in the stairwell, asked her out. This was the first time anyone
had made romantic overtures to her. The experience had thrown her into
terrible turmoil, reminding me of the fragility of "firsts."
erhaps
I too, am experiencing that fragility of firsts, as I stumble my way clumsily
through this first year of teaching. My impressions are as raw as my students',
my sensitivity as heightened, but I am glad for it. In a few years my
drama student will have a stock of come-ons to laugh over and dates to
compare. In a few years I will have racked up hundreds of stories to laugh
over and classes to compare. I look forward to that faraway time of wisdom,
but for now I am living purely in the present. Just like my students.
| Student of Teaching | A Year of Firsts | Continuing
to Become a Teacher |
Are New Teachers
Too Overwhelmed?
Brown University