I'm comfortable, confident, and on top of my game.
This semester is already half over. I rarely walk out of the classroom any more wondering how effective my lesson was. I know. My students' responses to my questions tell me. Their expressions change when I give them a new perspective on literature or I penetrate their wall of resistance to composition.
I've become the sort of teacher I've always loved: the sort who's not a soft touch, but who will help and encourage and interest me in the subject; the sort who recognizes my hard work and rewards it; the sort who takes as much pleasure in my success as I do; the sort I want to go back and see years later, even.
For this transformation, I want to thank...my students.
I've had some good classes, but the once-in-a-lifetime freshman class I had last semester changed me. They loved me; I loved them. They wrote their hearts out for me; I showed my appreciation. Two or three of my colleagues who generously covered for me while I was out with the staph infection came to me individually and asked if they could have that class, please. Our class sessions were always interactive and stimulating.
If asked now, I could name every student in that class. Three of my students in that class--Mike, Margo and Thomas--are fluent in Russian. Margo was born Russian, Thomas was trained at the Defense Language Institute, and Mike learned in high school and did a student exchange to Moscow. They would speak Russian when I asked them to (I love listening to other languages). These students were unfailingly bright and vocal and engaged. Then Jeremy who sat in the corner was one of my "sleepers"--not in the sense that he nodded off, but in the sense that he was quiet but wrote beautifully. And Matt, another prior service student, who shared my appreciation for hops and barley and who wrote a personal essay that was a work of art. (I told him he is a writer and urged him to consider an English major; he laughed and said, "You have no idea how long it took me to write that paper, Ma'am." I responded that the longer it took him to write it, the greater the chance that he is a bonafide writer. Where students get the notion that good writing should be easy, I don't know.)
This class created an atmosphere of excitement, and they formed solid friendships based upon their interaction in my class. In an odd way, we all hated to end it in May. They spontaneously gave me a standing ovation on the last day of school when I walked out of the room--a truly rare occurrence, and thinking of it now still gives me chills.
Somewhere in the course of that class, my confidence and comfort as a teacher solidified. I brought it with me to this semester, all classes. If any of those students are out there reading this--and you know who you are--thank you.
Now I walk into the room the first day of school knowing I love and respect my students. I tell them, too, just to get it out of the way.
Now, I'm laid up--my operation was Tuesday--and while I admittedly needed the rest I'm being forced to take, I miss my students. I balk at letting other teachers dabble with them. I swear...I'm as bad as a parent anymore.
Speaking of operation: subject change.
***
Thankfully, my knee wasn't bad enough to warrant repair. Dr. Sullivan completed a debrisment only, with no complications. Gretchin, my friend and coworker, gave me a ride home, where I groggily dealt with repairmen and such. (I have some tales to tell with the house buy, too; I'll save that for another blog entry, perhaps later today.)
I can already put weight on the leg, although I can't for any length of time yet without paying in pain. This is the reason, no doubt, for the two weeks of convalescent leave.
I can't do much else, so I put away things as my leg permits and I read a lot. I'm also rethinking my PhD plans, which entails a lot more reading, as well. (I'm still planning to apply. Worry not. I'm not stupid or crazy. :) I've just come to the conclusion that composition and rhetoric is not the focus for me. More on this later, too.)
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