the half-moon monster

Insomnia is a strange beast. It's unpredictable, unwieldy, difficult to slay. And because I used to be a night owl, making coffee at midnight and writing through the night, it's especially cruel. Everyone has a demon; I haven't figured out why this beast likes me, exactly, but I've struggled to keep it at bay on and off for years.

My last real encounter with the beast was during my first year of teaching. I thought I would be up late thinking about kids and their problems (why does Josh like poking himself with a pencil? How can I help Emily actually improve her writing instead of just thinking she is?), but instead, I'd go to sleep thinking about what hadn't gone well that day, and worried about how my lessons would work the next. My heart often pounded in my chest; I'd wake up, try to take notes to calm down, and then find myself in the same place as before: anxious, sleepless, frustrated. I had a long commute to work, so I was usually up by six anyway; in a bad cycle, I slept only a few hours a night during the week. When I needed to rest in the middle of the day, so overcome by exhaustion, my colleagues thought I was slacking, a totally baseless, and really painful accusation, which still sort of smarts.

I tried: switching the half-caf, then de-caf; turning the clock around; wearing thick socks; running more (to tire myself out); lavender Badger Balm; hot baths. Not much worked. Over time, though, the beast retreated slightly, and became a once a week thing (usually Sunday nights). And now, emotional stress (of my own making) keeps me up. Still not ideal, but at least not so workplace related.

Teaching is the kind of vocation that attracts people with perfectionist tendencies. In order to be a better teacher, and keep insomnia at bay, I've had to let go of some things: grading every paper, planning every class out the night before, emailing kids, and sometimes, parents, right away. But I've only been able to do that as I've become more confident in my own innate abilities as a teacher--abilities I lacked completely that first year.

breakout space

So, I'm writing this while students are completing one of three, very different tasks: writing their papers, getting help with their writing from a tutor, and reviewing/editing each others' work. And, remarkably, even though my sophomores are technically in three different spaces in the school, I don't have anything to do. The ones who are writing are behind enough with their work that they really need the work time; the ones getting help the need help, and the ones reviewing are doing so quietly, effectively, productively. This is what teaching should be: flexible and feasible. Students who finish in the lab can join the peer review; students who no longer need help can go to the computer lab to write. Students who don't know what to do with an aspect of their peers' writing can ask me. So I get to feel useful, without feeling overwhelmed. :-) This happens so rarely anyway; it's particularly impressive so close to winter vacation.

Of course one of the reasons I can structure class this way is that there's some accountability built in. And, I've been walking between my classroom, the computer lab, and the writing center. It's not a long walk (though this morning it sort of feels like it) but I definitely wish I had ten computers in the back of the room. Or an adjoining space where a peer tutor could help kids who need it. Since I don't, I'm breaking school rules by leaving kids unattended (at least few a few minutes at a time).*

*Addendum: I did, in fact, get caught breaking this rule, by another teacher in the department. She was within her rights to enforce it, but the rule needs changing. One continuing frustration is that the school's infrastructure lacks the flexibility good teaching (and what we're calling 'differentiated instruction) requires. We don't trust students enough to give them freer access to the computer lab, and, as a result, the lab is often unoccupied (leaving kids who have no computer access at home stranded). Which makes me think of Parker Palmer's thoughts on trust in a community: you can have the best teachers working in a school, but a school community where people in the building don't trust each other will only enjoy limited success.

Sticks and stones

When I was in eighth grade, Patrick, a boy who shared my busstop called me some horrific names. I don't really remember what he said, exactly, just that the language was intensely sexual, threatening, and that I felt sort of weird afterwards. (I think he used the 'c' word). A few years later, an older boy in my driver's ed class whispered something similarly offensive, and mysterious, to me after class.
I didn't know what to make of these words, their meaning obscure (to me, anyway, and possibly to them, too), and their intent unclear. I knew I didn't want to have sex with either of the offenders (or with anyone, at that point, for that matter). And I knew that it wasn't okay for them to speak the way they did, to me, but I wasn't sure why, or, what to say.
So, after the incident at the busstop, I enlisted my best friend, and decided I had to seek revenge; I literally didn't know what else to do. Telling an adult would have been so embarrassing, and, I was old enough to fight my own battles. Limited means and resources meant that our options were limited; we decided on toilet papering his house (using eggs and liquid soap as an adhesive). Not my finest moment, but in some ways, a glorious one. Somehow, it seemed just right: the mess of it all. I had no idea if he would suspect me, but I didn't care. As far as I was concered, he was getting off easy.
One phone call from the cops (which turned out to be a hoax) later, my mom marched me up the street to apologize. I can't remember what I said, but I apologized to his mom, for making a mess, and not to Patrick, who was outside, picking toilet paper out of the trees and scowling. It was all I could do to keep from grinning with pride and glee. Even though my parents were furious with their would-be vandal of a daughter, I was, and still am, so not sorry. Revenge was sweet. Patrick never picked on me again.
What I am sorry about is that there was no other recourse available to me at the time. My parents were too obtuse to imagine their daughter would encounter sexual taunting (even though I'd alluded to it before). Counselors and school administrators were too busy dealing with 'real' problems (vagrancy, violence, and, ironically, vandalism), and were an unfriendly bunch; I can't think of anyone I might have approached, or what I would have said. I did well in school; no one would have guessed that I needed any kind of assistance, except maybe more challegning classes. But never in my life had I felt more vulnerable, and more powerless, than in middle school. I wish I'd been more able to speak my mind. When I have kids, I want them to be able to.
And while I'm amazed at the advocacy skills of my students, sometimes I wonder if there are any among them who need help but lack the access, or resources, or both, to get it.