I never thought I'd say I miss myself as a teacher

We're thinking about schooling for our kid now, and I know that most of you who read this blog are in the same conversations as I am.

I'm re-reading my senior thesis from a fellowship program I participated in throughout my last year of college. It was intense. I bit off way more than I could chew. I read, observed high school classrooms, met with professors, attended teaching conferences, and despite many important distractions in my last quarter (senioritis, parties, falling in love with my now-husband), I somehow managed to prepare a 30-page thesis entitled "Education and Equality: Tracking in the English Classroom."

In preparing for tomorrow's conversation, I've read a handful of articles and listened to a podcast. This whole conversation on education felt so familiar and I had nearly forgotten about the whole year I spent listening to educators argue with one another about all of this. (Thank you, classroom trauma!)

I decided to peek at my thesis again, mainly out of curiosity: what did 21-year old me have to say about all of this? Pre-moving to Detroit, pre-teaching, pre-having a real live child -- this blog is anonymous, right? -- what did I value? What did I believe?

I braced myself for a load of cringe-worthy, idealistic savior-complex hogwash, but instead, fourteen pages in, I'm here, fighting back the sting of hot tears in my eyes. I surprised myself.

Often, this is my narrative about my teaching experience: I entered the classroom, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, only to be rudely awakened by the harsh realities of working in an underserved community, did what I had to do to survive each day, and came to the realization that I was not good at my job, I wasn't good at caring about my students, and teaching was not the right fit for me.

Much of that might still be true, but in reading my own writing prior to teaching, I am finding more grace and compassion for myself. Yes, my 21-year old self was idealistic as hell. But I believed that it was the right thing to consider all children as our own, and I believed it was worth trying to make things better. I wrote with conviction. And the present, adult me reads my old writing with shame. Where did that go? When did my desire for control and self-preservation override my sense of justice? (Again, thank you, classroom trauma!)

In my thesis, I write about language, and how the way we talk about schooling matters. Tracking (the practice of grouping students into classrooms and programs based on ability) became a taboo concept at some point, and then it was called ability grouping, and now more often comes in the softer forms of differentiation or scaffolding within the classroom, but if we're not careful, even in our efforts to champion more equitable systems, we can be quick to assume and insinuate that ability is fixed, and even more problematic, contagious.

I write about remedial tracks, and how these classes often subjected students to skill-and-drill workouts/menial tasks, or attempted to teach behavior and obedience, too often at the expense of high-level thinking. (I cringe now, remembering how many of my lesson plans as a teacher were not plans, but worksheets -- or the standard TFA first-day-of-school behavior setting guidelines revolving around rewards & punishments). I wonder now what my classroom might have looked like if I had entrusted my students with higher-level tasks, instead of believing what TFA and my administrators did: they need to learn how to listen first.

I write about student identities in the remedial/lower tracks, and their responses to my question, "Are you a good learner? Why or why not?" Those who said yes cited reasons like "I don't get distracted" and "I don't speak unless spoken to" -- compliance was the criteria, not critical thinking.

I write about the high-achieving tracks, and how my research showed that students designated as "gifted" are often the most stressed out, anxious, and materialistic students. (It got a little autobiographical here).

In those classrooms, I observed comments like "We're here to learn empathy through literary analysis," (amazing!) and "I am utterly bored. My reading, writing, and critical thinking skills are well above those of my peers." I would have found that student really annoying in high school, but I can't help but sympathize with the frustration of not being challenged.

I go on to discuss identity issues among different groups of students, and how mobility across differentiated learning experiences is what matters most. I should wrap this up though! What a long post.

I'm disappointed that I lost sight of so much of my research so quickly in the classroom. I rarely tried to engage students in high-level thinking. I focused on behavior and obedience more than I focused on skill-building. I craved time with my honors students, who were much easier to manage behaviorally, but still didn't give them the curriculum they could have handled because I was tired. I conveniently bucketed my students into groups in my head to differentiate instruction, but rarely revisited those groupings and offer opportunities to grow.

What does differentiation have to do with school choice? Language matters. We have to think critically about how we discuss our kids, the kids in their future classrooms, and their schools/programs. The way parents and teachers think about ability and learning impacts how students think about their own abilities and learning.

So as we're thinking about how to navigate school choice in a community that doesn't have the best schools, but has so much more to offer in many other ways, what do I want for my kid? is one question, but another equally important one is: what do I want for my community?

After all, we all impact one another whether we like it or not. I have spent the last couple years under the delusion that my choices no longer mattered to anyone but me and my family, but I'm glad my past self gave me a nudge (okay, a shove). This stuff is important.