Keeping the light aglow - a teacher triumphs over burnout

Five years ago, fresh out of college, I wrote my name on a blackboard for the first time. Hearing "Miss James" didn't bring a quick response from me at first; no one had ever called me that before. Not less than three months earlier, I had been sitting, pen in hand, at a desk with a puzzled look on my face. Who was I kidding? I felt like an impostor.

My first day cruised along uneventfully until ninth period, and then it happened: the student--teacher confrontation. Angel, who had muscles, a mustache and a tattoo, walked into my classroom, turned his desk toward the window and his back toward me. "Jus' do what you gotta do and leave me alone," he rudely said.

I couldn't, of course, just leave him alone. Twenty freshman eyes were looking at me, wondering if his behavior was going to set the new standard. So in my most authoritative tone of voice I asked Angel for his program card. When he refused to give it to me, my heart beat a fearful rhythm in my chest. But things were soon resolved. I called a dean, and Angel was quickly escorted out of my classroom. In the next five years I would encounter many Angels (who never lived up to their names), Elvises (who sang on the tops of their desks) and Alberts (who made even their probation officers flinch).

That first year I looked up the word teach in the dictionary. It was defined as "to impart knowledge or wisdom." During the next few years I did just that: I stayed after school to discuss pregnancy, suicide and rape, broke up fights, groped my way through epileptic seizures and ceaselessly urged students to open their notebooks. I also expounded upon the evil of drug dealers, discussed why you should say "good morning" each day and explained why you should speak proper English. And after five years of teaching," I was too exhausted to open my mouth, lift a stick of chalk or flip another attendance card.

One morning I looked around my classroom and wondered just why I was there. What had I accomplished after five years of teaching? Had I touched a single soul, changed a single life? My doctor had told me that I was "stressed out," and I believed him. I felt that my "light," that flickering spirit that keeps a good teacher in the classroom, was dim and getting dimmer.

But that very day Carlos, a former student, dropped by unexpectedly to visit me. He gave me a warm hug and, with eyes ablaze, described his year at college. "Thank you," he said to me from the bottom of his heart.

Students had often come by to say hello, but no visit affected me the way Carlos's did. It was as if I had received a sign reminding me why I was in the classroom. I began to think of all the small tokens--the cards, salt-and-pepper shakers, crystal whatnots, charms, mugs and mementos--I'd received from students over the years. And suddenly I began to cry. I remembered why I'd chosen teaching in the first place: I'd wanted to make a difference in the lives of teenagers. Carlos's visit told me that I had--the way my teachers had made a difference in my life.

One rainy September afternoon I ran into one of my old high-school teachers. She had been one of the most eloquent and proud teachers I'd ever had, even though I'd hated her strict, eye-cutting glances when I was in her classroom. When I started teaching, however, I had borrowed some of her techniques and mannerisms.

"Thank you for being the best and for bringing out my best," I told her. I could tell by her glance that she barely remembered me after 15 years of greeting and bidding good-bye to countless young faces, but she smiled and nodded her appreciation of my recognition.

Too often I had not given the best I had to offer to my students. Sometimes in my anger I had forgotten to truly appreciate them--I had been too busy feeling unappreciated. I began to observe and talk to colleagues for suggestions on how to improve my classroom performance. I lessened my workload and looked for ways to become more efficient and organized. I stopped trying to be everything to everyone--from mother confessor to surrogate parent. I began to concentrate on becoming what I was meant to be: a master English teacher.

I've found my answer to teacher burnout: Give back to others what has been given to you--the best that you can give. That small truth has relit my "light"--and it will continue to glow as I pass it down to the next generation of teachers.

Vivian James-Williams is a freelance writer and a teacher in the New York City public schools.

COPYRIGHT 1992 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group