Calm Evenings
The secret, I think, is learning how not to care.
A psychologist or social worker or counselor would describe it as being responsible TO my students as opposed to being responsible FOR them, but I like the nihilism of the not caring. Call it my punk rock attitude toward my job.
Telling myself that I don’t care (which isn’t entirely true, of course, but there are reasons for my self-deception: read on) helps me keep a psychological distance from my job that lets me feel human in the hours I’m not at school.
So these last two nights, I’ve definitely felt free, unshackled by worries about work. The school will still be there tomorrow. My students will still be there tomorrow (well, the ones who show up, anyway). I’ve done a reasonable amount of planning and preparing. I could do more, of course. I could plan for every contingency and freak accident; I could go to Kinko’s and run off dozens of “just-in-case” worksheets; I could grade a few more papers or read a few more articles about the culture of poverty and how it affects students.
I could do all of this, but I’d rather spend 30 minutes on my ski machine. I’d rather spend 20 minutes doing tai chi or yoga, or both. I’d rather take time to enjoy a hot cup of green tea while I chat on line with my fiancé about how, in a few weeks, we won’t have to chat on line in the evenings anymore because we’ll be living together. I’d rather mail a friend a couple of books I think he’ll like.
I’d rather do all of these things, so that when I get frustrated with my students tomorrow, as I’m sure I will, I can think “I have something to look forward to when the day is over.” I can’t entirely escape days like the one last week where I wanted to walk out on the spot (I had at least a dozen of those last year, and probably half a dozen so far this year), but I can embrace the things, like exercise and meditation and writing in this blog, that provide me with a sense of peace.
And I’m working on carrying that peace with me.
Today, for example, I had an exchange with my students that went something like this:
ME: There are two parts to this standardized test. One is 20 minutes long, and the other is 35 minutes long. We’ll take both parts today. Don’t worry about how well you do. The test is designed to measure how successful I have been in teaching you, so—
STUDENT (shouted): Are we taking both tests today?
At this point, after having dealt with this kind of rudeness all day long, I got mad. I could feel the angry retort swell up in my throat like hot bile. And then I could see it, a red wave crashing from my head down my torso, swirling around in my gut for half a shallow breath, then cresting again over my head before I . . . watched it go with the deep breath I had reflexively taken the moment that student interrupted me.
I shouldn’t describe it as not caring, but it sounds so much more dramatic than simply “letting go,” the phrase the Buddhists and Taoists and psychologists and counselors and such like to use. Then again, I don’t know why I need any more drama in my life, unless it’s the kind that comes on DVD.
Dealing with this kind of aggravation minute-to-minute—sometimes second-to-second—has never been my strong suit. My mother thought I was going to have a heart attack before I was 20. My father . . . well, we had lots of talks when I was a kid about controlling my temper.
Over Thanksgiving, Lisa, my mother, and I went to see “Good Night, and Good Luck,” George Clooney’s movie about Edward R. Murrow’s 1954 stand against Senator Joseph McCarthy’s Communist witch hunts. As director, Clooney chose to use music not to underscore the emotions of the characters (and in this taught film, the emotions, while rarely discussed, are always clearly running as high as the stakes) but very sparingly, and only during important scenic transitions. For example, when Edward R. Murrow is defending his journalistic choices to the man who signs his checks and stands a very real chance of getting fired or at least censured, there is no ominous bass rumbling under the words—there are only the words and the actor’s faces to convey the emotion and meaning of the scene. Clooney wanted to make the audience listen and watch carefully, because he wants you to think carefully about the idea of journalistic integrity and bravery and all of those high ideals that Murrow embodied and fought for. So the people sitting behind us in the movie theater who kept up with a steady stream of loud whispers to each other were obviously missing the point.
I noticed them, sure (how could I not?). I was annoyed, certainly (I take movie-watching very seriously, especially when the movie is serious). But it was Lisa who turned around and shushed them. Would I have eventually done the same? Maybe. But compared to what I deal with on a daily basis, it’s easy to let that stuff go.
A psychologist or social worker or counselor would describe it as being responsible TO my students as opposed to being responsible FOR them, but I like the nihilism of the not caring. Call it my punk rock attitude toward my job.
Telling myself that I don’t care (which isn’t entirely true, of course, but there are reasons for my self-deception: read on) helps me keep a psychological distance from my job that lets me feel human in the hours I’m not at school.
So these last two nights, I’ve definitely felt free, unshackled by worries about work. The school will still be there tomorrow. My students will still be there tomorrow (well, the ones who show up, anyway). I’ve done a reasonable amount of planning and preparing. I could do more, of course. I could plan for every contingency and freak accident; I could go to Kinko’s and run off dozens of “just-in-case” worksheets; I could grade a few more papers or read a few more articles about the culture of poverty and how it affects students.
I could do all of this, but I’d rather spend 30 minutes on my ski machine. I’d rather spend 20 minutes doing tai chi or yoga, or both. I’d rather take time to enjoy a hot cup of green tea while I chat on line with my fiancé about how, in a few weeks, we won’t have to chat on line in the evenings anymore because we’ll be living together. I’d rather mail a friend a couple of books I think he’ll like.
I’d rather do all of these things, so that when I get frustrated with my students tomorrow, as I’m sure I will, I can think “I have something to look forward to when the day is over.” I can’t entirely escape days like the one last week where I wanted to walk out on the spot (I had at least a dozen of those last year, and probably half a dozen so far this year), but I can embrace the things, like exercise and meditation and writing in this blog, that provide me with a sense of peace.
And I’m working on carrying that peace with me.
Today, for example, I had an exchange with my students that went something like this:
ME: There are two parts to this standardized test. One is 20 minutes long, and the other is 35 minutes long. We’ll take both parts today. Don’t worry about how well you do. The test is designed to measure how successful I have been in teaching you, so—
STUDENT (shouted): Are we taking both tests today?
At this point, after having dealt with this kind of rudeness all day long, I got mad. I could feel the angry retort swell up in my throat like hot bile. And then I could see it, a red wave crashing from my head down my torso, swirling around in my gut for half a shallow breath, then cresting again over my head before I . . . watched it go with the deep breath I had reflexively taken the moment that student interrupted me.
I shouldn’t describe it as not caring, but it sounds so much more dramatic than simply “letting go,” the phrase the Buddhists and Taoists and psychologists and counselors and such like to use. Then again, I don’t know why I need any more drama in my life, unless it’s the kind that comes on DVD.
Dealing with this kind of aggravation minute-to-minute—sometimes second-to-second—has never been my strong suit. My mother thought I was going to have a heart attack before I was 20. My father . . . well, we had lots of talks when I was a kid about controlling my temper.
Over Thanksgiving, Lisa, my mother, and I went to see “Good Night, and Good Luck,” George Clooney’s movie about Edward R. Murrow’s 1954 stand against Senator Joseph McCarthy’s Communist witch hunts. As director, Clooney chose to use music not to underscore the emotions of the characters (and in this taught film, the emotions, while rarely discussed, are always clearly running as high as the stakes) but very sparingly, and only during important scenic transitions. For example, when Edward R. Murrow is defending his journalistic choices to the man who signs his checks and stands a very real chance of getting fired or at least censured, there is no ominous bass rumbling under the words—there are only the words and the actor’s faces to convey the emotion and meaning of the scene. Clooney wanted to make the audience listen and watch carefully, because he wants you to think carefully about the idea of journalistic integrity and bravery and all of those high ideals that Murrow embodied and fought for. So the people sitting behind us in the movie theater who kept up with a steady stream of loud whispers to each other were obviously missing the point.
I noticed them, sure (how could I not?). I was annoyed, certainly (I take movie-watching very seriously, especially when the movie is serious). But it was Lisa who turned around and shushed them. Would I have eventually done the same? Maybe. But compared to what I deal with on a daily basis, it’s easy to let that stuff go.
posted by Christopher at
11:49 PM
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