An Honest Story of Borderline Failure

My boss called to tell me that I wouldn't have class at the school today with the 11-year-olds.
Or ever again.

The very next day she called again to tell me that I wouldn't have class that afternoon with Ander, either.
Or ever again.

Mom says that's freelance.
Mark says that's kids.
Jon says the feeling's mutual.

 

[cue the honest story, Part I]

On the day that would have been our 12th class together, I get a call from my boss around noon.

She says, "Hey Molly, your class at the school this afternoon has been canceled."
I say, "Okay, great! I mean, awww shoot. How come? Is it a holiday?"
She says, "Well, apparently the school asked the students if they wanted to continue with their extra English classes, and five out of six replied 'no.'"
I say, "...........um, okay. So does that mean the class is canceled for good?"
She says, "Oh yes, I didn't make that clear?"

I didn't know what to say. Did I just lose a class? Had I just been fired? What happened? And why the heck did she give me the bad news like that? Wait, was this bad news? Didn't I hate that class anyway? ....What just happened?

It is true that my afternoon class with the kids was my least favorite. But it's also true that I had taken a new perspective on things--a new-found positive attitude and engaging lessons to try out. And yet, even with refreshed energy and a backpack full of games, I still came home every Wednesday with a migraine and on the verge of tears.

The truth is, my adjustments and improvements proved to be quite effective...for one class. The students quickly returned to their typical misbehavior, and the situation actually got worse (if that was even possible). They continued to throw erasers at each other, swear at each other, and disrespect me in various manners. They began firmly vocalizing how much they didn't care if I spoke with their parents or not, and blatantly refused to do any homework I assigned. They also whined incessantly until we played bingo, and screamed at the top of their lungs (please believe me that this is not an exaggeration) until I gave them a piece of candy.

I didn't know what to do. I had already done everything you're supposed to do in an extreme problem solving situation. I recognized the challenges, asked for help, and walked in again with a renewed sense of commitment and positive reinforcement. But I still couldn't get through a single lesson plan, no matter how many physical activities I threw at them. None of it was working.

One week ago, after our last class, I sat at my dining room table, trembling with frustration and sobbing in shear desperation. I sat there, still, trying to calm down. After a while, I ultimately decided to simply hang in there. I forced myself to recognize that this wasn't that bad--that I was a beginner, and this was hard, and those kids are little brats, but that I could get through it, of course. That it would almost definitely get better. That next class I would try even harder.

I guess the kids saved me the trouble.

 

[cue the honest story, Part II]

You all remember Ander, my cleverest student. Well we have been having class together for three months now. But about one month ago, things started to take a different turn...

After about 6 classes or so, the charm of our friendly hour of chatter twice a week began to lose its magic. Our idle conversations began to slow. Although I never ran out of questions to ask him, he ran out of interest in answering them. This resulted in uncomfortably long moments of staring contests (not sure he was aware we were playing). So, I started to get creative and planned some interactive activities. I made sure to use his fancy Ipad whenever I could, and showed him music and videos. We also made a "magazine" together of his favorite things. But, alas, none of that could keep the attention of this 9-year-old. He quickly grew bored of my activities, even to the point of refusing to play games (what 9-year-old doesn't want to play games?).

This all came to a head when one class he sluggishly came into his room, sat down in his char, and unwrapped his after school sandwich. I began to ask him the usual friendly questions about school and his weekend and the latest soccer match. Rather than answering me, he decided to focus on his snack instead. He sat there, chewing his ham sandwich on a baguette, for 20 minutes. I watched the slowest chewer in the world gnaw on that thick slice of bread, with his mouth open, for 20 minutes. He did not answer a single question. He did not even make eye contact. He ignored every polite request to kindly place his sandwich aside for the moment while we look at our magazine project. When I finally placed my hand on his, and firmly requested that he save his snack for later, he got up, went into the other room, and told his mother that he didn't want to do English class. (Not sure if he's aware that I understand Spanish. Although that probably wouldn't matter to him...) Needless to say, this kid didn't seem so cute and clever anymore.

On top of that, another problem arose. One Tuesday afternoon, I knocked on his door at our regular time. Their nanny answered with a confused look on her face. She said, "No one told you? Ander isn't here. He had a dentist appointment." Okay, no problem. They simply forgot. Not a problem.

The next week, I knocked on his door at our regular time. But this time, no one answered. I called my boss, and she tried to get a hold of them. No one answered. She told me to wait 15 more minutes, and if no one showed up, I was free to leave (and would still be paid for the class). Well, no one showed up.

These incidences formed into a pattern, almost a habit, I daresay. I knocked on his door at our regular time to find either no one was home, or that Ander had some sort of engagement, at least 6 times. By the fifth time, I decided that this was getting out of hand. Even though I was getting paid without having to have class, I was wasting my time and money, and it was soon not worth the trouble. Furthermore, his class was becoming so irregular that the situation was becoming absurd, and I was worried that my boss might actually cancel the class herself.

So I suppose her phone call was not much of a surprise.

 

[In conclusion...]

I have lost two classes in two days.

Although I disliked both of those classes, something strange happened when I heard the news. I started to cry.

I felt like a complete failure.

Indeed, my worst fear is that I have failed at teaching--that the kids did not think I was a good teacher, nor like me as their teacher. It is true that they were my two least favorite classes. But maybe by labeling them as such I doomed them to failure. Maybe if I had had a better attitude I would have done better, and they would have enjoyed the class.

But how much is it my responsibility as a teacher to make sure my students enjoy the class? Do I seriously have to cater to their every desire? We must do some work some of the time- we can't play bingo every class. But what if that's what the kids want? What if you get fired if you don't do what the kids want?

I know I'm an alright teacher. And perhaps this is merely a clear sign that I'm not cut out for kids. I certainly never had the experience nor the tools necessary to properly execute those classes.

And I did try, really hard. But maybe I didn't give it my all. Of course I will always have these doubts, (even with classes that go well) and I suppose they are normal. And maybe it's better not to think about it at all since I will never know the real answer. On the other hand, maybe it is- I mean, I suppose it's good to have a swift kick in the butt every once in a while. To remind you that you need to continue to work hard. That no job ever remains easy. That there are always new challenges and you must stay fresh to keep up.

My Mom says that's freelancing. That getting paid by the hour depending on the interest of your client is part of the job, part of the challenge. And so maybe freelancing isn't for me. I quite like the consistency of a regular job. I like to have my own space, my own part in an organization, where I feel more permanent and useful. In fact I have excelled in the past at making improvements to organizations that I worked with for an extended period of time. Maybe that's my preferred strength instead.

My fellow teacher/friend Mark from Liverpool says that's kids. He told me that he is sure that if his students' parents sat them down and asked if they wanted to continue the class with him, they would surely say 'no.' But Mark says that's the point-parents normally don't ask. They force their kids into classes they don't want to do. So maybe that's it. It wasn't that I was a terrible teacher. It was simply the fact that they were unengaged students who were never interested in learning English in the first place, and who were given the chance to opt out.

Jon says the feeling's mutual. He reminded me that those were my two least favorite classes. That I came home frustrated and cranky after each class. That I wasn't teaching the kids, I was babysitting them. That I had thought about quitting the classes before. And so maybe they didn't like me, maybe they didn't like the class. But that's alright, he says, because the feeling was mutual. So it works out.

No matter the rationale, it's going to take some time for me to digest this, and then accept it, and move on. Because that's all you can do after a borderline failure.

So for now, here's the bright side: No more mental breakdowns from awful classes. No more watching kids eat sandwiches for 20 minutes in silence. And maybe I can fill those hours with a better class that pays more and that gives me a better sense of satisfaction as a teacher, not to be confused with babysitter.