Education’s Yossarian

I was supposed to have graded at least three more stacks of papers by now, and, oh yeah, I was supposed to have figured out what I was going to do in my classes the next day.

Exhausted and faced with at least another four hours worth of work that night, all I could do was cry.

I haven’t been back to my classroom since.

All of this had been brewing for some time. The following is from the diary that I somehow managed to keep fairly regularly beginning in October. If you pay attention, you’ll see why I say I’m writing this for your kids’ sake.

“It’s really depressing to suddenly realize that I’ve already worked 20 hours this week, and it’s only Monday night. Keeping up with grading is simply an impossible task. I worked 8 hours yesterday and then another 4 hours today (in addition to my time in the classroom and the time I spent doing other school related work), and I’m still not caught up.

“I’ve got a bunch of students who have done absolutely nothing this quarter. I’m sure I’ll get blamed for it. And, while, yes, as their teacher, I am willing to accept a good deal of the blame for their failure to work, I am also concerned that it is physically impossible to do everything I need to do to motivate those kids to work. I need to spend time with them individually. I need to have meetings with their parents. I need to have strategy sessions with other teachers, with administrators, with counselors.

“But I don’t have time to do any of that….”

Occasionally after logging thoughts like these, I would remember inspiring stories like that of Sydney Pottier’s character in To Sir with Love. And frustrating reality always hit me hard: Pottier had just one class. I’ve got five.

“Teaching is an impossible job,” I wrote many many times in my diary.

So, crazy as I apparently am for not being able to handle this job, I’m with Yossarian. It’s the system, not me, that’s insane. A lot of people would agree with me on that but, the trouble is, those people don’t get much press these days.

Right here in Arlington, for example, Marty Swaim and her husband Stephen wrote a whole