Growing Pains

On the first day of class, I let my students know that it is okay to cry. That we are here to listen and encourage; and that most of us have probably felt the same way at some time. They laugh awkwardly, shifting in their seats. Cry in a college classroom? Then, two months later, the tears inevitably begin to fall.

One of the most exciting parts of my job as a teacher of preservice teachers–or really of any teacher’s job–is having the opportunity to watch students grow: to watch students grow as a cohort from awkwardly sitting quietly during discussion to developing friendships and comfort in sharing, laughing, and crying with each other; to watch individuals grow as students introduced to so much new content that they grow to brilliantly discuss and apply and criticize with increasing complexity; to watch them grow as teachers from their tentative first steps and uncertainty about managing actual classrooms to budding confidence and ease using “cheerleader” voices (a quirky yet effective strategy for voice projection).

Yet, I also know they are not immune to the same pressures, frustrations, and overwhelming feelings of helplessness against mandated and immobile structures–many of the same concerns that hastened my entry into graduate school. Teaching is such a highly personal profession it is only that much harder to not take the setbacks personally, as the critiques themselves often hold teachers not only professionally but personally accountable. With so many measures and means for externally quantifying success, it is still the “little voice inside our heads” that is often the toughest critic of all. 

One thing I urge my students to keep in mind, especially when times grow overwhelming, is that at no point have any of them “failed” at anything. Of course it is natural to be hard on ourselves when teachers are a group full of over-achieving and highly successful individuals. But I cringe every time I read a student reflection blatantly categorizing a lesson or response as “failing.” The popular connotation as a negative state to be avoided at all costs is really just a means of boxing oneself in. Sometimes in trying to avoid failure, we limit ourselves to that which we already know, can already do, or have confidence to excel in. As teachers and as people it is uncomfortable to become comfortable with the thought of failing; but the thought of “not trying” might be even scarier.

The only way we ultimately move forward is to learn from every experience we embark upon–taking from the lessons that go well and learning from those that are a little shaky. Practicum is almost like a self-directed experiment where students have the support and time to test out all of the fabulous ideas they dream up and read about, see what happens, and through careful reflection and guidance, develop greater understandings about: content, management, pedagogy, student needs, relationships, and their identifies as teachers. Ideally, cooperating teachers and supervisors should be able to provide the space and opportunities for these branches to grow–free of the cynicism and high stakes that are attached to almost everything educational that goes on these days. 
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A funny thing happens when you stop trying to be perfect–you actually feel more confident even when things go much worse–because you learn how to just be present in the moment, trust yourself, and feel gratitude for every “opportunity” that comes your way. This is the type of mindset I encourage my students to take–one that allows them to cry and then to conquer their fears to try it again. It is also a mindset I continually struggle to take on myself…an important mantra that can make all the difference in a world where everything is framed as being more meaningful than it actually is.