Every morning when my alarm goes off I tell myself how many more times I have to wake up again before the respite of a weekend. Two more days, I told myself this morning. Two more days.
I know this is no way to live.
I’m not particularly confident that a day will come when this teaching gig gets easier: when I’m not having another task, form, meeting, or initiative thrown at me; when my colleagues and I stop being blamed for what’s wrong with education and are praised for our hard work instead. What a joy it would be to go back to how education used to be—when students were held accountable for doing their work and for behaving politely and respectfully, and parents were supportive in those efforts instead of thwarting them and making excuses for their kids. Oh, the good old days, when education was appreciated as a privilege. Earth to Joanne… Not gonna happen. I know.
My task then is to start putting my energy into finding that something else instead of lamenting about this (while fantasizing a mass exodus of good teachers who have had enough of all this blame and bullsh*t). Somewhere out there must be a job I would be excited to wake up for, no? Is that too much to ask for? Then how about this: I’ll settle for a job that doesn’t demoralize me.
Even if it means giving up shoes, handbags, happy hours, and gel nails.
Yeah, it’s that bad.