Dear Student Teacher...

Dear Student Teacher,

Today you nervously greeted me at the front doors, trying to balance your notebook, coffee, and fear -- all while shaking my hand and NOT spilling your coffee. Listen, while you certainly maintained a commendable poker face, your fear emanated from your unsure voice with each carefully chosen word… because (as you’ve likely had drilled into your head) first impressions are everything. You put up a valiant effort, but I saw through it…

2007. I’m standing at the front door of Albany High School, trying to navigate through a crowd of students to meet a complete stranger who will dictate the course of the next few months of my life. I have never stood in front of a room of students. I barely raise my hand during class discussions due to the immediate sweaty hands and band practice full of drum players exploding inside of my heart. C’mon. I don’t even call to order takeout because my anxiety cripples me to the point of being willing to listen to my growling stomach over having to dial a number and speak to an unknown voice on the other end. To put it lightly, I’m petrified, and I have no choice but to put on my best acting face and pretend I’m handling it. I will “fake it till I make it” and hope my cooperating teacher doesn’t see through it...

As we walked upstairs through the busy hallway, I felt your excitement radiating. Eager. The word eager comes to mind. Eager to learn, and know, and absorb, and understand… and make a good first impression. Because they matter. Rest assured, my dear -- you did. I think I will make sure to tell you that next October. I’ll make a note of that. Then, I watched your face as my seniors strolled into class, some over five minutes late, carrying coffees and sleepy faces. I saw you glance at students, not much younger than you, and watched your face as you wondered how you’ll handle a room full of them in a few short months. I recognized the expression as if it was my own…

2007. How are 10th graders so TALL? And how will I remember all of their names. And will they figure out how absolutely frightened I am of failing them? And how can I POSSIBLY be myself with someone watching my every move? And will that little boy named Josh, whose name I already remember after only three days because he is an Energizer Bunny of a human being, ever stop talking? And how do I MAKE him stop talking? And is this counting against me that I can’t make him stop talking? And how do I know if my lessons are too hard, but how do I know if they’re too easy? And how can I get my heart to stop beating so fast that I can’t even think? I’ll just smile… and fake it.

Three periods later, after watching my sleepy Seniors barely survive a class period full of Hamlet -- because Seniors + Spring Semester + First Period + Hamlet is a recipe for the most boring class of all time, and witnessing me run in high heels up and down aisles to help 28 10th graders who practically raised their hands in unison for the entire period, and observing my Modern Literature students run a class discussion that was a DREAM and that is NOT the normal reality and that you SHOULD NOT expect will happen more than a handful of times…. After all of that, I glanced over to see you smiling. You were bursting with questions -- really good questions. You wanted to know EVERYTHING. With each new mention of my expectations for you, I saw a shred of fear be replaced with a sliver of excitement. I could practically feel your brain spinning with all of the possibilities you now suddenly envisioned...

So, guess what? I’ll tell you like it is. You will likely screw up. You’ll plan the most amazing lesson to ever be typed on a sheet of computer paper, and you’ll strut into school ready to blow my mind with your creative genius… and then the photocopier will be broken, or the internet will be down, or half of the class will be absent (completely destroying your perfectly grouped group activity), or a fire drill will interrupt you, or what looked magical on paper will actually be like wet cardboard in reality. It’ll happen. And your palms will feel like they’ve been showered with droplets of fear, and your heart will shrivel in your chest, and you’ll want to fight back tears because clearly you must be a complete failure. And you’ll question if you’re really cut out for this after all. It is GOING to happen. Because guess what? Eleven years later and it STILL happens to me. It’s inevitable.

The good news is this: I still remember the girl from 2007 who cried on her mother’s floor because she was SURE she was the worst teacher on the planet -- all because a handful of kids refused to do their homework. I remember the girl who strategically chose her “teacher outfit” each day to try to make the best possible impression should she meet someone new. I remember the girl who stayed up well beyond midnight almost every, single night, making every worksheet or activity the most beautiful work of art she had ever seen. And I remember the girl who “faked it” until she actually did “make it” -- sort of. She’s the same girl who still sometimes cries on the floor (now her own, and not her mother’s) and still questions herself -- because that’s what happens when you care.

So, my point is I saw through your poker face today. I’ll probably see through it most days, and that’s okay. But I also heard you when you left the building and said, “I’m so excited I get to be in your classroom.” MY classroom. I heard the possibilities and ideas and promise radiating from your voice. I get to be the one to watch the magic happen. And it will happen. Because today you made an impression, my dear, and I am so excited to see where you end up.

Love,

Your Cooperating Teacher who still doesn’t have it all figured out, but who is so excited to help you learn that you won’t EVER have it all figured out… and that’s okay.

P.S. Cheers to the 2018-2019 school year. You’re going to ROCK this. <3