What Not to Do

So much of teaching is prompting discovery. I can tell my students what not to do, but most will do the don'ts repeatedly. This is no surprise, I do plenty of things I know I shouldn't. I waste time and then get stressed out that there isn't enough time. I behave badly: I dislike (sometimes I hate), I feel envy, I blame (sometimes me even). I don't write even though I know writing will feed me. I don't eat well (unless Kit Kats and cheetoes qualify as nutritious). 

I forget what I know until I rub up against it again. Sometimes it isn't so subtle, more like bouncing off a sliding glass door I thought was open. Sometimes it is just a whisper. 

A few years ago I was out in my yard at 3 AM because my dog woke me up. He couldn't wait until morning? I had opened the gate and was peeking in the downstairs windows at the work my tenant was doing on the space. I felt a feathery wisp on my leg. "Andre!" I screamed, "get in the yard!" Andre is not furry. What I felt was not my muffin daring out into dangerous territory without a leash. There is no part of him that is feathery (maybe his whiskers), he is all tightness and compact muscle. The skunk at my side froze. I looked into the yard to see Andre ready to pounce. "UPSTAIRS!" I demanded and Andre obeyed. The skunk did what skunks do. I was in my nightgown, it was a hot summer night, still and stifling. I had the nightgown off before I made it to the top of the stairs. My eyes squirted stinging tears. After showering for a long time, I got out to discover I couldn't tell if the stink was gone. Every window in the house was open, my whole house was suffused in the smell that makes me gag for miles when I pass skunk roadkill on the highway--even with the windows up. 

Some students get the glass door ah-ha, others the whisper, some the skunk--the lucky ones find their way to knowing somehow--if I do my job well. I whisper, I do cartwheels and dance, I yell and rant, I beg and plead, but mostly I ask questions so they can find their own answers. That's my job.

An old friend from high school (the friend/best friend as only going to an all girls high school can cultivate--I like to think we were on our own island in what often felt like a sea of bitches) commented recently on how ironic it is that I am a teacher, considering all of the bad teachers we had way back when. She went so far as to say they were destructive. Those were some of my best teachers, they showed me what not to do, over and over again. 

But the best teacher is experience, the awareness of oops--because sometimes knowing what you should or shouldn't do isn't enough. Sometimes the hard way is the only way to learn. We do stupid things. So I'll keep giving my students the heads up on ways to avoid mistakes and they'll keep making them until the oops resonates enough to change their behavior. And I'll try to avoid skunks, but I'll continue to keep the windows (and doors) open.