You stand at the front of the classroom and the kids come rushing in. Smile. Make the appropriate hand motions so that they sit down and get settled. They're ready for lesson. And you're so ready to teach them.
When you prepare a good lesson, when you're in sync with your coteacher, when the stars align and the angels smile down on you... man, there is nothing better than teaching. And when everything goes wrong, and the kids are rebelling and your coteacher has no idea what's happening... it's still pretty damn amazing.
I feel so alive in the classroom. All of my senses are on alert. I can teach a grammar point while writing on the board and narrowing my eyes at a student about to misbehave without breaking stride. I can understand questions asked in a language that I don't even speak. I can express whole ideas with a quirk of my face or the softest touch of my hand. Feeling connected to twenty-six growing minds is a really humanizing experience. That's why I spend so much time reading about it, finding new techniques to try, and talking about it in real life and online. It really is my number-one hobby and interest.
The best thing about teaching is that, when I'm doing it, everything else goes away. No stress. No worries. Everything that is bothering me about the rest of the world ceases to exist. Everything that is making me happy about the rest of the world disappears, too. I feel like I exist purely for this service. I imagine this is what the religious feel like, except I feel this way about verbs and phrases, and that moment when realization washes over a child's face.
When they cancel my lessons, as they did today, I feel the pang of withdrawal. Don't they know I need this?
When you prepare a good lesson, when you're in sync with your coteacher, when the stars align and the angels smile down on you... man, there is nothing better than teaching. And when everything goes wrong, and the kids are rebelling and your coteacher has no idea what's happening... it's still pretty damn amazing.
I feel so alive in the classroom. All of my senses are on alert. I can teach a grammar point while writing on the board and narrowing my eyes at a student about to misbehave without breaking stride. I can understand questions asked in a language that I don't even speak. I can express whole ideas with a quirk of my face or the softest touch of my hand. Feeling connected to twenty-six growing minds is a really humanizing experience. That's why I spend so much time reading about it, finding new techniques to try, and talking about it in real life and online. It really is my number-one hobby and interest.
The best thing about teaching is that, when I'm doing it, everything else goes away. No stress. No worries. Everything that is bothering me about the rest of the world ceases to exist. Everything that is making me happy about the rest of the world disappears, too. I feel like I exist purely for this service. I imagine this is what the religious feel like, except I feel this way about verbs and phrases, and that moment when realization washes over a child's face.
When they cancel my lessons, as they did today, I feel the pang of withdrawal. Don't they know I need this?
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