This Time, You’ll See by Carolyn Rennie

I am in an abusive relationship.

It’s shocking to say it aloud.

I’m not talking about my spouse.

I’m talking about my profession.

It tells me I’m never good enough.

It tells me I don’t work hard enough.

It tells me 8 hours a day isn’t enough.

It tells me I’m not dedicated enough.

It tells me a 90 degree classroom is a fact of life.

It tells me children must feel safe to learn.

It tells me my classroom failed the lock down drill.

It tells me the “shooter” could see us huddled in the corner.

It tells me students’ basic needs must be met before learning can take place.

It reminds me constantly of how many families are hanging on by a thread.

It tells me every injustice, social ill, failure of conscience and compassion, and dangerous inequity in my country is our problem to fix.

It tells me I am a difference-maker.

It tells me I am a failure.

It tells me my questioning techniques are ‘basic’.

It tells me to stop asking questions.

It tells me I better have some sick time accrued if I want to have any kind of paid leave when I start a family.

It tells me to weigh the needs of my own child against the needs of others’.

It tells me of course our own families come first.

It tells me our community of families are the reason for the job.

It tells me to work beyond contractual hours to get those papers graded on my own time.

It tells me students aren’t writing enough.

It gives me the maximum number of students.

It tells me students need detailed and timely feedback.

It asks me what’s taking so long.

It demands I go into debt to become qualified.

It tells me I knew teachers weren’t paid well.

It tells me I should have thought of that.

It tells me to get another degree.

It tells me that, actually, my raises do cover cost of living increases, co-pays, and increased premium deductions.

It tells me there are no good dental plans.

It tells me to make my classroom warm and inviting.

It tells me to smile.

It reminds me some teachers don’t even HAVE unions.

It tells me I don’t get the recognition I deserve.

It tells me to be grateful for what I have.

It tells me I am spoiled.

It tells you not to listen to the cynical elders.

It tells you to be inspired and inspiring.

It tells me I am a lifeline for kids.

It tells me there’s only so much we can do.

It tells me I am a hero.

It tells me I must take a bullet.

It tells me to stop worrying, we have protocols in place.

It tells me to practice self-care.

It tells me my work is the glue of society.

It tells me to heal myself first.

It tells me it is easier to come in sick than find qualified substitutes.

It tells me it has to raise my insurance premiums.

It tells me some teachers don’t even get paid sick time.

It tells me we can either have good benefits or higher pay.

It tells me nobody else will ever treat me better.

It tells me people who leave the job weren’t in it for the kids.

They didn’t love it enough. They are faithless. But you do. But you aren’t.

It tells me this is all normal. It’s what I signed up for.

It keeps me up at night, whispering:

If only you had gotten grades in faster

If only you had gotten those papers done sooner

If only you had worked Sunday

If only you were more innovative

If only you weren’t so selfish

If only you joined one more unpaid committee

If only you fought harder to make a difference

If only you spoke up

If only you cared more about this

If only you cared less about that

If only you’d buy more out of pocket

If only you’d keep more food in the room

If only you had more patience

If only you sent more emails

If only you reminded them one more time

If only you were more charismatic

If only you were more nurturing

If only you had more time to plan

If only you worked harder

If only you worked harder

...Then you’d be a good teacher.

And now it tells me I am being called to battle.

Now it tells me to kiss my high-risk parents goodbye for ten months, I am needed to provide childcare, mental health services, meals, safety, and best educational practices.

It tells me my own child is probably not part of the small percent who will die.

It tells me I am young and healthy and will probably not die.

I tells me I am probably not likely to suffer permanent bodily damage if I get sick.

It offers me several free counseling sessions to deal with my anxiety.

It tells me we will get through this, because that is just what we do as educators.

It tells me to learn to prevent the spread of virus so my students don’t infect their families or each other.

It tells me my students will need to feel safe to learn.

It tells me to monitor my students’ mental health.

It tells me to prepare to help them grieve the loss of what school used to be.

It tells me to prepare to help them grieve the loss of loved ones.

It tells me to rapidly change, again.

It tells me to accept the things I cannot change

It tells me to innovate.

It tells me to accept there’s only one inevitable outcome.

It tells me it just wants the best for me and our kids.

It tells me I am appreciated.

It tells me not to be afraid.

It tells me this is reality, and reality means we have to get back to normal. Reality means the country is counting on us. Reality means the country will not save us, we are here to save it.

It asks me with a smirk where I’ve been this whole time.

It reminds me of the failures of emergency virtual learning.

It reminds me of the children and families left out to sea with no life jacket.

It reminds me I have a family to feed.

It reminds me there is no bottom in this country.

It tells me to catch as many children as I can as they fall.

It asks me to lift them up.

It tells me to differentiate.

It tells me what is best for all.

It tells me this is my life’s work.

It tells me my life is not in danger.

It tells me how incredibly adaptive we are.

It tells me our innovations are unparalleled, a sight to behold.

It tells me we are fighters.

It tells me to stop fighting.

It tells me we pulled something from nothing.

It tells me we always rise to the challenge.

It thanks me for my personal sacrifices.

It thanks my child for her sacrifices.

It tells me to stop being so selfish.

It tells me I may need to double my workload.

It tells me I am brave.

It tells me I am cowardly.

It assures me that it can do what the federal government hasn’t done and will not fund.

It tells me it will have soap and paper towels and sanitizer and tissues and smaller class sizes and adequate supplies and prep time and technology and support and enforcement.

It says it will be different this time, you’ll see.

Where will you go, it asks. This is what you love, it says. Think of the kids.

Copyright 2020- Carolyn Rennie