The paper crown looks like fire; the tiny writhing flames are captured in frozen two-inch spikes. The principal holds it in both of her hands a few inches above Ms. D's head. It is 2:00 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Forty teachers sit hunched around me on kid-sized stools attached to low tables in the cafeteria. This space has no windows, only yellowed, fluorescent lights hanging from a cavernous ceiling. It feels like we are all in the middle of a cave. I've been invited here to present to teachers, to inspire them with creative, innovative ideas. But instead, as usual, I'm mentally adjusting how I'm going to even capture their attention and make this a useful session.
"Let me tell you about Ms. D and why she's this month's Teacher on Fire," the principal says. Ms. D stands in front of the room, hands clasped in front of her, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. I couldn't help thinking of this as a crucifixion of sorts, the death of working as a teacher in ways that are authentic, innovative and matter to children. I knew what was coming. It had nothing to do with inspired thinking or creative lessons. For that, teachers need time and support, both of which are burned to ashes every day. "First of all," the principal continues, "Ms. D is here every morning at 6:30, and stays after school until the custodians kick her out, usually around 8 o'clock at night. At home, she emails parents to keep them informed of their child's progress, and if a child is absent, she calls parents at home to find out why. When I see her in the hall, she has a perfect line of quiet children who walk with their hands behind their backs. She's always willing to take children from another class when a teacher on her team is absent. She has perfect attendance, and her classroom is clean and inviting. Her assessment data this semester are phenomenal, and she has no parent complaints."
Sitting on my tiny stool, I remember how much I wanted to be Ms. D, to be praised as a "great teacher". I thought if I worked long enough and hard enough I could make a difference in the lives of young children, especially those who needed it most. Here's what I know now: To be a teacher on fire is an exercise in insanity and impossibility. To hold this teacher out as an example of excellence is ridiculous. It's not about teaching at all. Like me, she gets no extra pay for her time and effort. Recognition demands unreasonable hours and the completion of a never-ending list of tasks and expectations. In order to cope, Ms. D is probably swilling a case of Dr. Pepper each week that she stashes under her desk, gulping Lean Cuisine lasagna and tater tots, processed foods low on nutrition but high in convenience, and, in the afternoons, a Snickers bar from the vending machine.
Now she has a paper tiara.
Yeah, she's on fire all right. As I'm watching this I realize we are all supposed to think she is perfect. But I know she cannot work like this and have a life outside of school.
Here is what it means to be on fire: first, her lesson plans need to be written weekly, adjusted daily, and must include learning objectives for the subjects being taught. Then, of course, there's paperwork: grading, assessments, copies, book club order forms, information to go home to parents, fund raisers, forms for picture day, forms to go in children's school files, all in alphabetical order, please. Ms. D must respond to emails, attend grade level and principal meetings each week, and schedule parent conferences, none of which should be done during instructional time. She begins her day in the early hours of the morning and doesn't stop. Since there isn't enough time during the school day, this means Ms. D must work at home in the evenings and on weekends.
Ms. D smiles. Someone snaps a picture for the bulletin board in the front hallway, the one with the black background and fiery border that matches the crown on her head. It makes her look like she's roasting in hell. But she doesn't feel the flames. On the weekends she'll have to figure out how to diversify instruction for children with attention difficulties, emotional problems, family problems, and learning disabilities. She must give attention to all twenty-five kids in her class, but especially the ones who suffer from illness, neglect, abuse and poverty. She spends Saturday afternoons and her own money at the teacher supply store, the grocery store, and the toy store. She creates bulletin boards for student work and tries to plan when she'll have time to change the display.
She also attends professional development after school and on Saturdays, runs a booth at the school carnival, and organizes field trips and parties. Her heart skips a beat each time a child gets a C or a D, and she never raises her voice or gets angry. She prepares the children for standardized tests, administers the tests, makes sure all the children excel on the tests, or explains why they don't, and always, always stays composed, flexible, and uncomplaining. Yes, she is a teacher on fire.
And she's not the only one. We're all on fire. Is it just me or do others see what I see? This is a system that's broken. In five or ten years Ms. D will still be chained to at least a 60 hour work week, exhaustion, stress related illness, and a nonexistent personal life. But, she'll keep going because she believes she has to. She is afraid. Afraid she' s not good enough, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being labeled an ineffective teacher and losing her job. All of us are afraid.
If I could speak to Ms. D, I would tell her to stop. I would tell her that working this way is hurting her and the children. I would talk with her about her day, see what's really important, and let go of the rest. The best part of this job is creating lessons, ones that make teaching and learning a pleasure. I would help her make a plan for a balanced life, one that gives her time for movies and plays, bicycles and gardens, dates and friends.
It's 3:30. I've finished my presentation, gotten the teachers to create group poems and perform them. They laughed a lot, and many told me what we did felt good. Some head right for the parking lot. Some are on their phones, making plans for the afternoon. I glance down the hall to my left as I'm leaving the building, and I see a solitary figure returning to her classroom. It is Ms. D, a pile of papers in her left hand, the crown hanging loosely from her right.
