On Constantly Singing the Same Note

I feel as if the only thing I do these days is moan; if its not one thing, its the other. Optimists would say that in order to get out of my funk I need to adopt a positive attitude. Perhaps there is some validity in that claim. I often think back to the first few weeks that immediately followed my Christmas trip home; I was so full of positivity and enthusiasm. It's seemed to be on a steady decline since then. A part of me was hoping that, after the visit from Trevor and Matty, I would experience that high again. Unfortunately for me, it seems to have only compounded the problem, making me more miserable than I was before.

Maybe my feeling this way has nothing to do with their visit. I'm not entirely sure. I'd like to think that the slump I've been in is entirely of my own doing, and not reliant on anything else. However, I'm not stupid enough to buy into that. If the solution was as simple as thinking positively and casting out these feelings, then no one would ever be sad; they've got pills to change your attitude.

I really do like to think that the majority of reasons that I'm miserable is because I'm treated miserably. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, because I've got a lot of time on my hands (and to myself), and I've decided that my problem isn't entirely with the children treating me like dirt. In fact, if anything, it actually goes above that. Lately I've been muddling over the idea that it is the administration that's getting me down. If I pursue this train of thought, it starts to make a lot more sense.

Feeling positive in your job has a lot to do with how you are perceived to be working by others. Often, I feel as if I am under appreciated; I rarely get positive praise.

In fact, I often get heaps of moaning piled on me. Mind you, it is often veiled criticism, and is rarely ever an outright accusation of inadequacy. Well. Except for the other day.

You see, there was this one boy - I believe in the past I'd referred to him as Fat Bastard, or something of the like - that I flat out refused to teach, because he was a waste of space. Just this week, it had been decided that the time was ripe for him to try returning to my lessons. Not wanting to stir the pot, I agreed to have him back. A few moments after this was decided, I was sitting in my classroom preparing, when I received an e-mail stating that after further consideration it was deemed best for the student to NOT return to my classroom, but to instead go work with the 'Lord' of the department. Their explanation was that he'd be doing exam skills in THAT class, which was far more beneficial than what I was doing with my class.

I sat there for a moment, mulling this e-mail over.

"More beneficial than what you are doing in your classes..." I read aloud a few time. Each time I turned it over, the meaning of what they'd said grew more and more insulting.

"MORE beneficial? What exactly do they think I am teaching?!" I asked myself.

Tucking my hair behind my ears (which, for the unknowing, is a sure sign of my frustration) I lit into an e-mail, in which I - not trying to mask my sarcastic tone - asked them to elaborate on WHAT exactly they thought I was teaching that was so useless.

I didn't get a reply back, and instead was left to seethe and fume all through my next lesson. Once lunch rolled around, I was in a right mood; it was time to kick ass first, and take names later. I walked into the Orwell Office, and silently (this was the form of my anger; silent protest) collected my lunch from the fridge. No one seemed to take notice of me, OR my anger.

I sat down, and was sure to tuck into my lunch without looking at anyone else. Surely that would make them notice. My passive aggressiveness could only go unheeded for so long! (I do hope you know that I am mocking myself, at this point. I am a pansy-assed pussy).

Finally, the Department head spoke.

"I do hope you're aware that we had no ulterior motives in pulling *said student* from your lessons. It is by no means a comment on what you're teaching," she said.

"Sure doesn't feel that way," I spat.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"If you must know, I'm actually teaching the very same thing that HE'S teaching, so why you've decided to take him out of my lessons remains a mystery to me. Far be it for me to question your judgement though," I said.

"Oh, it's not a question of what you're teaching," she lied, "It's the people in your lesson. You said yourself you suspected he wanted to come back because his new girlfriend is in the class. He shouldn't be in your lessons for the wrong reasons. We need to assure he gets the work done."

I put on a smile for her, "Oh yes. Alright then."

I let the matter go there, at least on an outward level. Inside, I was still bubbling over with frustration at her blatant lie. Why would they first say it was because it would be more 'beneficial' in terms of what was being taught, and then change it to mean more 'beneficial' to the student, in terms of behaviour and motivation? It was absolute rubbish, and I think I was right to be offended.

That said, they can keep the Fat Bastard for all I care. I don't want him in my lessons, anyways. He's an annoyance.

One of many that I teach, to be honest.

I've had a trying few days.

I feel a bit hypocritical, saying that it's not really the students causing me grief, considering just this afternoon I nearly broke into a flood of tears again in front of my year 9s. Clearly I was a bit hasty in letting my students entirely off the hook for my melancholy ways.

I should begin by (perhaps repeating) saying that Thursdays are my worst day. It is the only day of the week that I teach five periods straight through. I never look forward to Thursdays. I especially hate that I end with my year 9s. You see, if I get them in the morning, they can be a semi-delightful bunch, who actually can do the work if pressed slightly. In the afternoon though, when I have them the rest of the week, they are an unmanageable,unruly lot. I have zero control over them, and they know it.

Nearly every lesson I have with them is a constant struggle. I try to talk over them, to get the lesson across to the few students who listed. At the end of lesson, my throat is usually dry and sore and the quality and tone of my voice takes on a bizarre, otherworldly tone. It sounds unattractive and annoying, and it only reverts back to normalcy with the aid of copious amounts of liquid (usually in the form of a sickly sweet tea).

Today I went into this ritual again. I tried in vain to get my lesson across, but most of the students simply could not be bothered to end their private conversations and listen to my 'boring' lesson on language and atmosphere in 'The Monkey's Paw'. They have an essay due soon on the story, and I was working through an analysis of the language. Basically, if they had been paying attention, they could have gotten a lot of examples to incorporate into their paper, thus increasing the likelihood of receiving a decent mark.

I struggled through it until the last ten minutes of class. Then, fed up, I hollered at them that I 'gave up' trying to help them. I told them to get their books out and silently work on their creative writing piece for the last ten minutes of class.

I explicitly said that any talking would result in detention.

No one bothered to take heed.

I issued my warning yet again.

Still nothing.

Exasperated, I wasn't sure what to do. I felt my frustrations boiling over, as I looked from face to face. Only a few looked back at me with genuine concern and annoyance (regarding the other students behaviour). I knew that my reaction at this point could go one of two ways. Either I could slam my fists into the nearest desk to get their attention, and then launch into a screaming match, or I could break into tears and leave the room.

I pursued the latter, though modified it somewhat.

Instead of breaking into tears, I place my pen down, walked towards the door, opened it, and walked out closing it behind me.

I stood there, with my back against the door for a moment or two.

Allisson was outside in the hall as well, lecturing a student. She stopped, and both of them looked at me.

"Are you alright, Miss Carson? Want me to go yell at your class?" she asked.

"No thank you," I said calmly. "I just need to breathe a minute."

She nodded at me, then continued in on her student. I turned around, and stared into the window of my classroom. The students were motionless in the room, staring back out at me. I took a few breaths, then opened the door.

I closed it behind me.

I stood there a moment, soaking in the silence. You could have heard a pin drop. They stared at me, expectantly. I think they thought I was going to burst into tears.

"I've said this before, but I'll say it again. This type of behaviour...this notion that your private conversations are more important that what I'm trying to teach you...is going to stop. This is not social hour, and I'm not going to let you treat it as such. This is English. This is my classroom. I've done nothing to deserve being disrespected like this. I'd like to think I'm a pretty nice person, but clearly being that nice person isn't getting me anywhere with you. At the end of the day, there are things I need to teach you, and I'm just not able to do it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being treated like crap. You KNOW you shouldn't be acting like this. Yet you continue to do it. It's going to stop, and I'm going to be the one to stop it."

I said all this in a controlled and calm voice. I looked from face to face as I spoke, making sure each student knew I was talking to THEM. All of them.

"Now. I asked for silence earlier. I'm not sure what you didn't understand about that. I want it for the remaining 4 minutes. I am dead serious. Don't push me anymore on this."

They instantly tucked into their work.

I went to my desk and sat down. For four minutes not a sound was made. I stared at the clock the entire time. Just before the bell rang I quietly finished my rant.

"You are all in for a huge shock if you go into year 10 with the current amount of knowledge and skill you have. It's not for my lack of trying. If you have any hopes of succeeding in GCSE English, then you'd best reform yourselves. The days of 'nice' Miss Carson are over. Until you can prove to me that that person can return, you're going to be faced with a very different English lesson. This is not my choosing. This is what you've forced me to become..."

The bell rang, and they filed silently out. Most shot looks of guilt at me. Three girls remained behind, helping me put chairs up.

"Are you alright," one asked.

"Yes, thank you, I am fine," I said.

"We're sorry...that our class is so bad. We know we are bad...and we're....just, sorry," she said.

"It's fine, ladies. Thank you for being sweet, though," I smiled.

They left.

I sat.

I sit.