Yesterday some of my teacher friends were bubbling on Facebook about purchasing back-to-school supplies, and I wanted to murder them. They are good people who are merely having evil thoughts, I told myself.
But today, I woke up at 5:00 am, my internal alarm like a harbinger of doom, and realized that only 35 days stands between me and the first day of school. It’s time to get busy. At least mentally. So I read my Twitter feed, flagging four articles that might be good to build lessons around. Then, I stared at the ceiling for about ten minutes, visualizing how I want to arrange my new room this year. Then, I went back to sleep.
That’s all I could muster.
Teachers are the eternal optimists. Each new year is another year I might get it right. I won’t. I know this. But, every year, ignoring the defeat and hypocrisy of all the years before, I buy those pencils and hang those posters and type up my syllabus, and wait, with joyful expectation, for a chance at teaching gold.
That’s what makes me go back. To serve up the fruit.