Friday, April 13, 2012
Living inside a self is an exhilarating play with normalcy. Just 'being' is enough challenge for me. Precarious, preposterous, precious, a well spring of unfulfilled promises, spinning wildly forward, toward one more chance to make amends.
I love my life as teacher. But challenging myself each class, to take the truth in the moment one step further, creates havoc. And this chaos of thought can offend, demise, ruffle feathers. An exhilarating ride for those right for the fight, but certainly not for those of us seeking solace in anonymity.
I seem unsuited for the predictable expectations of some. I, by my very nature, can never live up to all. Though as a job, teachers must, and some even do, fulfill expectations. As much as I too would love to please, there is too much of the odd, a swirling tempest in a tea pot, to succeed. Only in the tradgic cumbersome integrity of acceptance, accepting this lumbering old bear of a man, a compromise may be met. But the question remains, in the industry of education, whose expectations, that of the school, the students, and teacher, do I measure myself?
This labor of love, to be transformational and relevent to each and every pedagogical heart beat, plays hard on my fiber. I am thread worn, and struggle with fatigue. I love the integrity of the process, yet move too outside the box. There is too much agenda, too much room for self-deception. When I break the rules, why am I surprised by the waves of reaction? My hunger to be liked is out maneuvered by a steadfast arrogance. A guru complex lacking an essential, a bubbly charisma to win the hearts and minds of the masses.
A teacher must be likable and potently reliable. There is a tipping point in every classroom alchemy, where enough likability blends with relevance. Can I breath the full depth of self, to be the man I am, and still fulfill the needs of my target audience? As the target moves and I align my sites, I attempt to calculate trajectory. Am I teacher enough for this job?
When the teaching mojo is working, my soul sings "YES!"
But in the end,
by what measure...
the final evaluation,
of my thirty odd years,