Mydentity Crisis

“All we are, we are.” Matt Nathanson

Internal conflict: a struggle inside one’s self involving thoughts, feelings, or emotions. Or all of the above. External conflict: a struggle between one and an outside force.

So what is it if you feel at conflict with the world itself? Exhale.

That’s hyperbole. I don’t know the whole world, and some people actually like me, so that statement isn’t actually true at all, but feelings don’t care much about truth, do they? Sometimes my feelings feel separate from me. Separate from my mind, my rational mind. My mind that is driven by something even deeper than rational thought…my intrinsic mind—my subconscious primeval self that says, “You will ensure that your young survive. You will supply food, shelter, security. You will bare your teeth to protect your children. To protect your family.” These parts, the inside or outside of my conscious self, the motherfighterwarriorproviderstandupandbiteorscreamifyoumust and the loveexplodeserruptsseepsandexudesstandupbiteorscreamifyoumust exist together as me.

Oh, how I embrace the delicate fierce uncontrollable force that is human identity and individuality. And oh, what a paradox, terrifying and liberating. 

I don’t remember well. I see it in flashes. I feel the push against the small of my back, the grip at my wrists, the bile of shame eroding my throat. My shoulders ache with tension I cannot relax or alleviate. My jaw pops open and my tongue searches the raw impressions left by my teeth. This will be a joke. This will become a punch line. I will tell her, the student, how she watched with horror from her desk. We will laugh, because this was just a dream.

I can’t catch enough to know why I was arrested. It won’t come back. I just know that I was. At school. In front of my class. In front of the smartprettyblondegirl who cried from her prettyblueeyes with her head cocked to the side in disbelief. Her teacher, led away by the police, but not in handcuffs. They spared me that indignity; I remember that much. I’ve never been arrested. And until yesterday, I thought this was something to be proud of. Jail isn’t on my bucket list. How could I explain it? Justify it? What would I do to warrant it? I won’t steal. I won’t drink and drive. I won’t hurt anyone. I won’t cheat on my taxes…I don’t even know how to….

I told my dream out loud, to a friend, then to the kid—she laughed, then to another friend, a friend who asked, why?

“I don’t remember. I can’t find that part of the dream. But it was for something good. I mean, I was standing up for something, at least.”

“Well, some things are worth going to jail for.”

motherfighterwarriorproviderstandupandbiteorscreamifyoumust and loveexplodeserruptsseepsandexudesstandupbiteorscreamifyoumust do scream, in unison, “YES!”

What? Exhale.

I’ve never thought of this. My mom wouldn’t kill me even though I say she would. She’d do something worse. She’d look at me with shame. Shame. Shame. Shame. The look that elicits confession (We were wrestling. That’s what caused the hole. Her head. It went through the wall.) The look that evokes apology (Please don’t be mad. I am so sorry. I’ll never do it again. It’s my fault. Please, please, please don’t be mad.) The look that nixed my worst schemes. THAT look. I’m experiencing a physical reaction as I write, the reaction of my body to shame. The strangulation of loss (without the loss), like breathing through humidity. 

And yet, I realize with absolute clarity, there ARE things worth going to jail for.

 Like shame, reality lingers. A thing realized stalks me like a play thing. Not dinner, so easily consumed and forgotten. Instead, the mouse in the cat’s view, chased and caught and released and tossed and chased again. But realization never tires of me. I’m not disposed of. I’m not left alone.

And then, when I’m worried I’ve obsessed too long, when I’m sure my conscience and nerve and resolve and sanity will break, He comes. I’m holding my breath; I don’t know if that’s literal or metaphorical, but the feeling is real either way, and I think I’m going to collapse into myself and onto His shoulder. He comes with tears and peace, and the shame dissolves into a new resolution. Waves. Waves. Waves. Break and retire. Break and retire. Rock me. Comfort me. Embrace me. Encourage me. Gently. Gently. Shhhhhh. Tears, cleanse away fear but stain my face. I bite my lip and my fingers rise from my lap. I’ve learned now. I know what to do. My palm follows my fingers up, away from my body. “Okay. Okay.”

If it isn’t God, then who is it? Who comes into my car, into my heart, into my thoughts when clarity is on the other side of the mountain? Who whispers, “Shhhh, Child.” Who consoles me when I am beyond consolation, beyond comprehension? I can’t do this myself. I am not stronger than shame. I am not greater than reality. There are days when I do not steer myself home. There are things worth going to jail for.

So where does that leave me? Breathe. Don’t forget to release. Oh God! Okay. Okay.

She tells us that things aren’t good. We already know. We figured. She confirms. It isn’t her fault. It’s her job, and my heart tells me she’s sincere. She thanks us. She tells us she’s sincere. I believe her. She didn’t create this, none of us did….and yet, collectively, we all did. Tough economic times. We bought what we couldn’t afford and produced more than we could buy. And then there was (or is?) a war that we didn’t support, but soldiers who we did (and do), and hurricanes and tornadoes and tsunamis and life…. We cannot place blame. Not on her. Not on the president. Not on ourselves. We must persevere. Breathe.

We’ve sacrificed, she knows. We’ve extended, OVEREXTENDED. She knows. She thanks us. Sincerely. Breathe. Breathe, because the tears are coming and no one else is crying. Bite your lip. Bite. I believe her. We are professionals. It may sound corny (I believe you) but learning happens here, within these walls (yes! Yes! Thank YOU!) We are here for children. Children are our business. (AMEN!) Give them your time (I will. Okay. I do!) Open your arms to them (Thank you for saying this, for making it okay, for validating my work). Breathe.

There are some things worth going to jail for. My children are worth going to jail for. ALL of my children. I have over one thousand children. Two live with me. I love them all. Even the difficult ones. There are days in my classroom when we do not complete work and yet, we do something far greater, we learn a lesson. Sometimes, we search for it. Sometimes, the lesson finds us. 

There’s a fight in the hallway and everyone is puffed up on one side or another or for no side at all. Some kids laugh about fighting and some curse the teachers who broke it up, and some are ashamed that there was a fight at all. A lesson. One kid says, “gay” and not as happy, and not at an adjective, but as a slur. A lesson. Someone doesn’t understand why cell phones/ipods/notclearbeveragesinnotclearcups /piercings aren’t allowed in school. A lesson. A girl wears a necklace of suck marks round her throat and the boy in the next aisle jeers at her. A lesson. This is English class, but this ain’t English. This is LIFE, and either way, I am the teacher. Exhale.

I don’t think I’ll lose my job or go to jail for these lessons, but in the moment, when I know what’s right and I’m certain of what needs to be said, I worry, and insecurity sets in….what if someone else disagrees? What if someone else has the opinion that that girl’s hickeys aren’t my business and neither is her seeming lack of self respect? What if someone else thinks that my insistence that we WILL not use GAY as a HATE WORD violates their religious beliefs? There are some things worth going to jail for. What if my kids never understand that a lot is really two words and that a comma CAN NOT go between two complete sentences even if they think that’s a dumb rule and even if I say and write and repeat this information in various formats on consecutive days? What if my students learn that they are kind and smart and important because at least Mrs. Campbell says so and this means they respect themselves enough to do their homework even if they never earn a perfect score? And what if I don’t grade that homework for days or weeks because when I’m at school I’m standing up to bullies and when I’m at home I’m comforting my son who’s being bullied at his own school (or on the school bus)? 

What if I told you that I take my job seriously? I do. I take my job so seriously that at times, I break. I break because my heart breaks because I care SO MUCH. A girl doesn’t show up and I know she’s gotten thin and I know she’s seeing a counselor because she knows she has a problem. I can’t do homework because I can’t concentrate because she didn’t show up for school, so what can I do? I call home and speak with her dad who thanks me for calling and I cry when I hang up the phone. I grade no papers, complete no homework, and if I don’t get to bed, I won’t wake up in the morning. But have I done my job? The shame comes if I do, the shame stays if I don’t. I don’t know. What matters? 

What makes a good teacher? Me? You want me to answer? The kids matter. That’s why so many of us HAVE stuck around despite the economic crisis, despite budget cuts, despite frozen salaries, despite lack of compensation, lack of societal respect for the profession, low morale….THE KIDS. My kids, my daughter not yet in Kindergarten, my son who reads well but bothers others with excessive talking…we accept them for who they are and where they’ve come from because they are kids. I would go to jail for any one of them, and for one of the first times in my life, I feel no shame.

I give them high fives and hugs. I squeal out loud at their triumphs and weep with them over losses. My stomach convulses with worry: abuse, neglect, surgery, alcohol, car accidents. I welcome these children into my family each year, some stay, some leave and never visit. I share with them life experience and implore them to avoid mistakes I’ve made…always careful to not say too much….what if I say too much?

Is it important that your students like you? Do you want your students to like you? She asks. The answer explodes inside me. YES. Why? Because, don’t they want me to like them? Don’t they want acceptance? Don’t we all? I can identify about ten specific assignments I completed in high school. Ten, out of five (eighth through twelfth) years of high school. But I can identify each of my teachers. I can tell you who was nice and who was not. I can tell you who tolerated me and who embraced my creativity and strong-will. I can tell you who shaped me and who left me to sit….isn’t that a lesson? If my kids don’t like me, I might as well give up. They might get frustrated, wish I’d back off, but they don’t ever doubt that I care. Any of them. The day I stop caring about kids, the day I show up to work and I’m not there for the kids, that’s when I should lose my job. Not if I fail to complete a set of grades within a designated time, not if I forget to record a tardy, not if I ignore a nose ring or two, because I will. I shouldn’t lose my job if my Facebook status says that I believe in God or that I support gay rights; some of my students believe in God, some of them don’t. Some of my kids are gay, some of them aren’t. I love them all. I stand up for them because sometimes no one else will. I shouldn’t lose my job if I get a tattoo because I believe in self-expression. Some of my kids are killing themselves in an attempt to suppress their need for self-expression.

I leave the meeting and return to my room where Sara sits designing the cover of the literary magazine. She has no reason to be here, because school released two hours ago, but she’s stayed to help me and because she’s dedicated. She doesn’t care about grades, she cares about her work. She will never even receive a grade for the work she’s doing right now. Neither of us cares. She’s been with me for four years and more than four classes, and she knows me well enough to complete my sentences. Her hair is black and red and cut at an angle so that one side is several inches longer than the other. She’s worried about college, and I’m worried that she’s so worried, and assure her that she’ll be fine. She will be, but I don’t know if I will be, because after four years I’m attached. She’s a great kid, and I’m proud of her. Really, she’s a young woman now, but I won’t tell her that.

When Sara leaves it’s after three. I decide to stay for an hour to grade exams. Cori walks in with her boyfriend. I’m tall, but they are both taller, far taller than I am. Both wear glasses. Ocarinas around their necks. Cori’s in my Creative Writing class (with Sara). She wants to know how I’m doing and I tell her I’m fine. She’s fine too and just wanted to stop in because I looked lonely…and because they had nothing better to do. She says this, but I don’t take it personally, because I know that’s just how teenagers speak. She smiles and we both giggle. We chat for a half hour about writing and life and future plans. She wants to take my class again next year but doesn’t know if she can fit it in…she says I’m the sweetest teacher she’s had in a long time, and I wonder why. She wishes that Creative Writing could be offered in summer school and we decide that there isn’t money for that. Her boyfriend wonders, out loud, what teachers do in the summertime. Cori answers before I have time to. “Normal people stuff.” He replies with an, “oh.” I laugh. And then I reflect on how true that is. I tell them that in the summer I hang out with my own kids and slipnslide and swim and play and relax. Cori says that she can’t imagine me more relaxed because I might float away. I don’t tell her that last year I was so tense I wasn’t sure I’d survive….I don’t tell her that last year I put my job before my family and although they were forgiving and understanding I could not bear the guilt. I also don’t tell her that visits like this are the reason why I love my job…and also why I am always behind in my grading.

I hate grades. I do. That’s the truth. My truth. I’m not much of a teacher, huh? Grades create shame. Grades motivate some kids and bury others. Grades divide. For some, grades conquer. Grades are incapable of teaching. Grades do not understand compassion, integrity, self-esteem. Grades are things. My students are people. People need validation, consolation, empathy, a break. I can tell you who will pass my class and who will fail without grades. I can tell you, because pass and fail have little to do with numbers. Pass and fail have to do with confidence and drive and perseverance. If we give these to our children, if we instill confidence and drive and perseverance in each of them, each will thrive. What will an A do? An F? I do grade, fairly by the way, because it is a requirement of my profession. As long as I grade papers, I’m allowed to work with kids.

My identity crisis is complicated, because it is both an internal and external conflict. And, in truth, I don’t believe it is my struggle alone. I believe (although I will only speak for myself—because we all need our jobs these days) that I am not the only educator who feels this way. We teach because we care about kids, because we’re passionate about learning, as cliché as that sounds. We didn’t enter this profession to enforce discipline or provide childcare, or administer test after test, but we do, because we work for our kids’ well-being. Internally, we are loving, compassionate, inspired, dedicated, empathetic, idealistic, passionate, and resolute and yet our innate fibers are in conflict with feelings of fear, apprehension, reservation, frustration, and guilt. Should we feel guilty if we choose our families over homework? If we spend our days with other people’s children but our nights with our own? Our weekends at least? We are asked to do more with less, and to teach more kids more things in the same amount of time. These are external factors. Where is the conflict? Well, perhaps some of us do keep it inside. It remains internal conflict. And yet we remain at odds with a society that criticizes teachers, scoffs at their extended(?) summer vacations. We are in conflict with a world in which prices increase and salaries stay the same year after year. Our ideals and expectations conflict with student apathy, a byproduct of a bad economy, boredom with the current test-driven school climate, and home lives so dire our kids are focused on survival, not school.

I’m tired. I’m not defeated though. When I think of Sara and Cori, Aubreigh and Aidan….well, I wonder why I’m sitting here writing (give me a break though, it’s a Friday night) instead of doing more to save the world. These kids are our future—cliché or not. And God help me, they are worth going to jail for.

Copyright © 2012. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.