Studyhalls

It’s funny.  Life.  I mean it isn’t funny at all really.  But it is the sadness that comes with the happiness that I just can’t seem to figure out and I suppose I don’t have to, perhaps maybe I should just remember Elizabeth Komar citing some eastern philosopher/writer talking about how the sadness digs into your soul and allows you to then enjoy exactly that much in return.  You know what is funny is, I am not sure I am even citing her correctly. 

I don’t know a lot of things anymore.  I am tired.  Tired of worrying, of crying, of laughing hysterically only to go back just as quickly to crying just as hard.  Tired of the constant consumption of beliefs about myself and my feelings, the analyzing, the dreaming.  TIRED.

“Just get over it already!” is what I long to scream.  If only I would listen.

PJ Stacey died on Saturday night.  Car surfing.  Ethan David was driving the car. And I can see their 16 year old faces in front of me.  It brings me out of my own life for some moments.  Thinking about PJ’s beautiful mom, well pressed and regal, his Dad’s kind eyes. Seeing them last in a parent conference, God it must be 5 years ago now, when I worked in a school where parent conferences were just for the failing kids.  I try to think about PJ in class and all I can see is his face smiling. I can’t hear his voice.  He never spoke unless forced and I wonder how often I forced him.

I think of Ethan and my heart drops wondering if he will have the strength to survive this.  He has to live with those decisions made so late at night.  Decisions that so many of us have walked dangerously close to and are rarely required to settle up for.  It is different because I can hear his voice, see his eyes so sad and  alone. I can hear his voice because of studyhall, not for any class I ever taught him, though I was his world history teacher for a year.  I think of that poem, “What Teachers Make”.  Have you heard it?

What Teachers Make

By Taylor Mali

The dinner guests were sitting around the table


discussing life. One man, a CEO, decided to explain


the problem with education.  He argued:


"What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided

his best option in life was to become a teacher?"





He reminded the other dinner guests that it's true


what they say about teachers: "Those who can...do. 


Those who can't ... teach."



To corroborate, he said to another guest: "You're a


teacher, Susan," he said. "Be honest. What do you


make?"



Susan, who had a reputation of honesty and frankness,


replied, "You want to know what I make?"



I make kids work harder than they ever thought they


could. I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal 
of

Honor and an A- feel like a slap in the face if the 
student did not do his or her very best." 



"I can make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall


in absolute silence."



"I can make parents tremble in fear when I call home"



"You want to know what I make?"



"I make kids wonder."



"I make them question."



"I make them criticize."



"I make them apologize and mean it."



"I make them write."


"I make them read, read, read."



"I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely
 beautiful, and definitely beautiful over and over and
over again, until they will never misspell either one
of those words again."



"I make them show all their work in math and hide it
all on their final drafts in English."



"I make them understand that if you have the brains,
then follow your heart...and if someone ever tries to


judge you by what you make, you pay them no


attention!"



"You want to know what I make?"



"I make a difference."



"And you? What do you make?"

I don’t like that poem, not today, filled with “I”’s and “what teachers do” because today I feel like the greatest thing I ever did as a teacher is to just sit and pay attention and today, I am not so sure that was even enough.

It’s the line “I can make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall


in absolute silence."
that keeps circling in my head today. 

“Obedience…. Do what you are told! Let me impart my knowledge!”  God as if any of us know what the hell this life is about…

It was in studyhall that I got to know some of my favorite kids, kids who would have never let me in when they were sitting in Social Studies class listening to a teacher who was wearing navy Lands End wool clogs and Ralph Lauren oxfords telling them that Gandhi is important to their lives.  I don’t know for sure, but I am pretty confident that Ethan David hated me in Social Studies class and probably PJ too.  I was a bitch, demanding, just another teacher who was filling out progress reports of all the things he wasn’t doing.  But in studyhall, I was allowed to be different.  In the middle of heaping amounts of work due, I sat down and looked at them and “allowed” my kids to talk.  But the things is, I was there talking too.  Perhaps it is really about what Elizabeth said the pain eventually becomes the cup that holds the joy.  The change that you inspire also changes you?   

I can see Ethan sitting in the back of the classroom, the corner closest to the door.  His eyes tortured then by his time in Mexico when his family sent him to find God and conform to standards he just couldn’t stand.  I admired him then, I wonder if he knew.  Admired that he had the strength to question a system he wasn’t sure he believed in.  I, always wondering what would it take to stop him from fighting a system that was so clearly not reaching him.  What would it take to make him read his books, do his homework, care about his future?  I never found out.

Mr. Dubetz was in the cafeteria today. Head shaved, scar showing, skinny.  He, our board president, one who cares about all the things a board president should care about was on his way home from work one February afternoon.  In a crosswalk, that was blinking green, was hit by car going too fast and not paying attention. 

Life changing.  Was the driver texting?  On the phone?  Looking at his ipod?  Questions.  Mr. Dubetz was in a coma for months as people spoke in hushed tones in hallways, thinking it didn’t look so good.  His children, my Alyssa from last year, forcing a smile when she saw me manning hall duty, saying without words, “I am okay, it is fine. Please don’t ask me what is happening.” 

But today, when I am thinking a little bit of loss, there he was, Mr. Dubetz standing there in the middle of the cafeteria smiling broadly.  His head shaved, scarred and doing more than functioning.  Politicking, making conversations like he always did.

There it was.  Joy.  I can’t understand it.  I am not going to try… instead I breathed it in, said thank you and walked to my afternoon duty in the middle school hallway.