Tough Love

3 words describe me right now: I am exhausted. This is not the result of a crazy Saturday night (I stayed in, ate ice cream, and watched "The American President), but rather it seems to be my new semi-permanent state of being, at least for the last three weeks. I honestly cannot remember being this tired, this consistently in all four years of college. My roommate Kate, who is about to complete her first year of teaching in two weeks (yay!), tells me that this is how she felt for the first four months teaching, and then either your body adjusts and the exhaustion passes, or you just forget what it felt like to not be tired all the time. I'm not sure whether to be encouraged, but I'm choosing to believe that is hopeful news. :) In the meantime, I offer that as an apology if any of this sounds too incoherent.

I am now three weeks into teaching, and one week into teaching eighth grade math, specifically. Who would have thought this is where I'd be a month after college, or anytime after college for that matter? I ran into my high school calculus teacher this weekend, who still remembers me as the student who morally objected to finding the surface area of revolution because the only possible real-world application of that equation is how much paint to put on a cooking wok. I simply wrote at the top of my classwork papers, "I promise never to go into the wok-making industry" and turned them in blank. He did a decent job hiding his surprise when I told him my new occupation, but he still was pretty close to laughing. (He also, I found out, has since ceased teaching his students how to find the surface area of revolution.)

While math is certainly challenging, so far I remain about one step ahead of my students; at least I have solved quadratic equations before, even if higher-level calculus was never my thing. My bigger challenge these past few weeks has been not the material itself, but the students, and specifically how to manage the behavior in my classroom while I teach the material. I hear this is extremely normal for first-time (and even veteran) teachers, which gives me hope. And my school is possibly the best place to be learning, because there are already many sound structures in place for me to use to promote classroom discipline. For instance, demerits: each day, I receive a sheet with each student's name on it, next to several boxes where I can record merits and demerits based on their behavior during the day. At the bottom of the sheet is a key with a number code for (I kid you not) about 39 demerits and 15 merits. There is a demerit for not tracking the teacher with your eyes; for not having proper posture; for not having all the necessary materials at your desk; for speaking out of turn; for being in improper uniform. If you disrespect a teacher or a peer, that is an automatic detention, as is an inappropriate response to a consequence (i.e. "No I was not!" as opposed to, "Miss, I respectfully disagree.") I had to try to figure out this week what response was appropriate to a student coloring on his uniform -- there is not, shockingly, a numerical code for that one -- so I made it an "other unprofessional" demerit and pretended like I knew what I was doing.

As my brother pointed out when I described this system to me, it sounds not only strict but downright cruel when you only hear about it and can't see it in practice. In reality, the system is probably a lot less cruel than many school discipline systems. It is clear and consistent; the students know the rules, and every teacher has the same merit/demerit sheet. It does not require yelling or anger to control; I can remain very calm while redirecting my students with a quick and clear consequence. It allows for positive reinforcement as well--I've given out many merits for "excellent posture," which I find much more productive than giving out demerits for poor posture (since my students all immediately sit up straight, mistakenly thinking that I will be giving them all merits, too).

Nevertheless, while I agree with the merits (no pun intended) of this system, and can't even begin to imagine how chaotic my classroom would be without it, I have to agree with my brother in my gut reaction to it. I feel cruel standing in front of a classroom, regularly handing out consequences because a pencil has not been sharpened, an eye goes astray, a rude remark slips out. I feel badly because I know that I easily have made (and continue to make) the same mistakes. I want to give my students warnings; I want to prevent them from making the mistake that requires the consequence; I want to save them from having to take such regular and immediate responsibility for their actions.

But then as I type this this, I have to stop myself. I know that this is what I want in the short-term; it seems more sympathetic, more gracious, more how I think I want to be treated. But in the long-term, is it actually the most loving? Is it loving for me to teach my students that it is acceptable to roll their eyes at me now, if the reinforcing of such behavior is going to get them fired from their first job in a few years? Or is it more loving for me to make them face a small consequence (30 minutes after school) now, in order to teach them the importance of respect and give them the best possible advantage in a job market which is already going to be unfairly predisposed against them because of race, socioeconomic status, English-language capabilities, etc.? Is it loving for me to allow them to sleep in class, if such a habit will cause their grades to drop? Or is it more loving for me to administer a small consequence (a demerit and a call home), which may cause them to get in the habit of sleeping more and thus being better prepared to perform at the level they will need to in order to get not only admission but scholarships to great high schools and colleges?

These are only a few examples. They point to a larger reality though, which is that my love for my students cannot only be sympathy and excusing their behavior. It needs to be tough, because the world is tough. Their world, in particular, is tougher than what I have had to face. The challenges they will come up against are large, and in many cases are the results of injustices that can and should be amended. But the fact that they shouldn't exist does not mean that I can afford to ignore them, because my students cannot ignore them. In reality, I've realized, when I want to love them by sympathetically excusing problem behavior, I really am not loving them. I'm loving myself. I'm protecting myself from their anger; their frustration; their dislike of me. I'm protecting myself from having to be the adult in the room who cares for them enough to teach them hard lessons, even at the expense of my own popularity. This kind of "love" is easy, because it is my natural response. Real love is more difficult--it is tough, not just for them, but for me to give. It doesn't feel loving, because I, like my students, don't enjoy receiving consequences. But when I think of where this tough love leaves them--and me--I know that both of us are better off with it than with the watered-down versions I am tempted to give.

There is some hope at the end of week one. My first day, I had to give three demerits to the same child in one class period--a pretty big deal. Later that week he landed himself in in-school-suspension, where I had to meet with him in order to get him caught up on his math homework. He seemed a little more timid in the ISS room, so we actually had a very good session and by the end of it I could tell that he was actually understanding the concepts that he had struggled with earlier in the week. After completing one particularly difficult stretch of problems, I bent down and looked him in the eye and told him, "I can tell you are smart, and that means you are smart enough to not only do your math homework but to stay out of this room for the rest of the year. I do not want to see you in here again. Do you understand me?" He actually smiled at me and nodded vigorously. That smile was not one of nervousness or an attempt to please me; I realized that because of my stern demeanor, he understood that I cared for him. He later found me to turn in his previously-failed quiz--corrections completed, all perfect. Granted, a small victory at the end of many consequences, but a hope. I hope that not only he continues to succeed in math, but that he can continue to see the love behind tough love, and to grow because of that rather than shy away from it. And I hope I can grow to have the courage to love in a way that may be costly for me, because the cost of not loving in this way is so, so much greater.