Sometimes former students come visit me in my classroom. These visits are always welcome, but in one case, somewhat unwelcome. One of the students who has came to visit had once –mid-semester—asked to be transferred out of my class.
The Pain of Blame
The student who had asked to be transferred out of my class did so while we were going over the basics of grammar—sentence structure, capitalization, and comma usage, and for him, grammar was hard. His marks were falling. He had never gotten below an “A” in English. I was too hard, too demanding, and the classes weren’t as much fun. So, he decided, it was time to drop my class.
Bent on protecting their son from failure, disappointment, and boredom, his parents set up meetings with my principal. Behind closed doors, the parents and the principal debated the issue of moving classes, until the student was told to stay. So, he remained seated, upset and resentful, in my classroom.
It’s that time of the year when a dry erase marker that won’t work or first block without your morning coffee is enough to flip your normally jovial, light-hearted self into a snarling, spitting cat.
Welcome to the end of the school year, where the survivors are few and the wounded many. You have made it through the morass of the school year—avoided the grenades, crouched low, staked out your territory—and made it to the other side of the trenches. This is no man’s land, but you—and a few other teachers who remain relatively sane—have nearly made it.
Any armchair psychologist need only survey your wrinkled teacher garb and your matted, knotted hair to identify your condition: end-of-year teacher burnout. But it takes a teacher who has been there and done that, one who has gained a degree in armchair psychology from The School of Life to advise a burnt-out teacher what to do about it.
While I may not hold a master’s or PhD, I do hold that precious degree from The School of Life, and here is what I know about end-of-year teacher burnout.
When I was a first year teacher now nearly five years ago, I knew as much about teaching as I do about the types of clouds or the kinds of rocks: I had a vague recollection of learning facts about these things in school long, long ago, but put me in a rock museum or ask me to describe the clouds above my eyeballs, and I’d be stumped.
As a first year teacher, my knowledge of teaching was academic. In teachers’ college, I had been fed from a trough of fun, impractical theories; I had viewed classroom simulations comprised of perfectly behaved adults who playfully mimicked rebellious teenagers; I drank Starbucks lattes and sucked on bonbons as my professors talked about creativity, fun, and social justice. In short, I had no idea what hell awaited me.
Here is my practical advice for first year teachers.