Prophet

Not a day goes by that I don't question quitting my job at Winter Park High School.

At 7:28 a.m., I picture myself standing outside my classroom, admonishing kids to hurry it up, so they won't be late to first period. In an instant, I feel the rush of pleasure of reading strong essays or watching kids try to puzzle out the answer to a tough question. I think, too, about the the acid pouring into my gut just before sixth period, and the spine-sagging exhaustion that slammed into me every afternoon well before the end of seventh period.

Every day, I miss it. And every day, I don't. And every day, I get a little closer to figuring out what happened.

Here's what I know:

1. I learned how to teach -- really teach -- in L.A. I wasn't teaching at Winter Park High School, at least not much. I was doing a lot of other craziness, some of it self-induced, but much of it demanded from a district that has lost its way.

2. I am not a prophet. At best, I am a standard-bearer announcing the arrival of One Who Knows Better   Than I. Give me a direction, a job, a a command, a set of instructions, even a task that is impossibly difficult, and I will do it well -- and cheer on my colleagues while I'm at it. But here's the kicker: if the direction or the job or the command or the instructions or the task is one I don't believe in? Not happening. And I did not believe in what I was asked to do at Winter Park High School. I tried. I wrote referrals and called the deans and had kids removed, and I gave piles of practice tests and taught pronoun case and administered grammar diagnostics, and I filled out stacks of individualized education plans and input essay scores into data tracking systems for writing prompts someone else thought important.

My students needed literature and love. The days when I figured out how to squeeze those in were pure magic. But in seven weeks, I think I may have managed an hour or two of fine teaching. Maybe five.  Maybe not.

3. People pleaser that I am, I need a boss who is engaged. I was well into the fourth week of school before my administrator found time to sit across a desk from me. Alas, she did not welcome my ideas. She gave me a book to read. I was devastated.

Two days ago, I sat with my former administrator from Camino Nuevo High School. I said, "You ruined me for teaching anywhere else, you know." And she replied, "You're welcome." That she wasn't disappointed in me was like a stepping into scalding shower on the coldest winter day. I stood still and held up my hands and let the steam seep in.

I have a nephew named Jason. He's a senior in high school, and he just finished reading Macbeth. I cornered him at a recent family event and asked, "So? Whatdidyathink?" He said Macbeth got what he deserved. And I said, "So you don't think the fates set him up to fail? That he had no choice, really, that he wasn't merely an actor on a stage filling a role?" He said, "Well, he chose the role, didn't he?" and then fled before I could further ruin his evening.

These are the questions that plague me ... the choices, the roles, the terrible aftermath. Do the Jasons need me? Or do I need the Jasons?

Sixth period will be over in eighteen minutes.