
I don't want to be all "born in the 1900s" saying you should sacrifice your family life to grading other parents' kids essays, but since this was an AP teacher, it surprised me. It probably should impress me. I have been one of those lucky teachers who chose their teaching assignment: AP Lit and Comp, AP Lang and Comp, and English 9--it's a dream job for me. But it comes with papers as seen in the titles of the first two ("and Composition"), and English 9 is currently in an official writing unit :). Nevertheless, though it is exactly what I signed up for, I can't imagine ever getting to the point where I can grade so efficiently that I can get it all done at school. If I could, would I regret all of those hours and hours and hours I have spent grading over spring breaks and winter breaks and on weekends?
It really seems like I'm judging though I am trying not to. There is more than one way to teach. There is more than one way to teach writing. Moreover, I will have to admit I am not efficient. I am probably the opposite of efficient and I don't even know what that is. But I know deep down that I should not judge people who have figured out how to make their lives work and teach English as well. I should NOT make them feel "less than." Do I feel "more than"? Maybe a little. It doesn't matter as I am not changing at this point. I have to believe there has been something gained by students from my hours grading in my living room. But their students are benefiting, too. Who am I to claim otherwise?
I did quit for five years when the load got to be too much and my kids were young. I felt I couldn't teach well if I needed to parent effectively. Then my husband lost his job, so the risk had taken a dark turn. Now I'm safely working at a great district, teaching what I love to teach, proud of the work I do, and still kind of overwhelmed and inefficient. Duh, inefficient--that's the opposite of efficient.
Stay in the profession--do what you need to. Back to those practice AP poetry essays on Field's "Icarus." In the poem, after flying too close to the sun he didn't drown--he ended up in suburbia not able to make wings strong enough to take him even as high as a light fixture. It's a sad poem, and if there's a metaphor for my life in there, I don't want to pursue it.
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