Notes from public school - day 38

Sometimes on a Friday afternoon, after a week of classroom teaching, I feel like I’ve been through a 12 round boxing match and been Jo’s in the last minute of the last round.

Teaching is like boxing, you know.

On some days, I’m dancing on the balls of my feet, waving both of my boxing gloves in the air. My heart is pounding to the beat of the theme from Rocky, my feet are running up the long, high steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and my ears are hearing students and fellow teachers and administrators shouting out my name over and over again.

“Trevor! Trevor! Trevor!”

These are the days when I’m writing a story on the Promethean Board in my classroom and my students are sitting wide eyed, open hearted, still and silent, hanging on every word and waiting for me to write the next sentence.

Or when my students make one of the greatest sounds in the world, the “Ooooh” that means they really and truly, deep down in side’ly’, understand something I want to teach them.

Or when a teacher friend at school leaves me a small note in my mailbox at school that says, “Thanks for all you do, but thanks most of all for being you.”

On other days, I’m laying flat on my back on the mat, looking up at the blurry light over the ring. My mouthpiece is lolling half way out of my mouth, my trainer is beating on the floor and yelling, “Get up! Get up!”, and the referee is waving his hands over me at the ten count.

“He’s out!”

These are the days when a student has a total meltdown at 7:45 AM just as the door of my classroom opens and the long day of teaching begins.

Or when the results come back from a standardized test and most of my students did not meet the standard.

Or I wake at 4:30 AM and ask myself, “What makes you think you’re an effective teacher? You have a good heart but a disorganized brain. You have no idea what you’re doing! Your school and your students would be better off without you.”

So today I cheer for teachers everywhere.

Our alarms go off before sunrise and our Chuck Taylors hit the pavement running before the crack of dawn.

We duck and weave, stick and jab, cover and move our way through our days, trying to be the best teachers we can be, hoping to make a difference in the life of a child.

At the end of most weeks, we have a swollen eye, a busted lip, bruised ribs, and nothing left to give.

But on Mondays, our alarms go off, and we put one foot on the floor at a time, and we make our way toward our lives and work again.

As boxers.

As teachers.