Kianna Alexander

Or, My Attempt at Teaching Middle School English in Today’s American Educational System

*(I used a ficticious name. I’ve never met the previous teacher and she deserves her privacy.)

I saw the image on the school website, before I interviewed for the job, long before I heard the whisperings about her. A lovely woman, professionally dressed, smiling for the camera for her headshot.

Over the next 10 weeks I would learn of her fate. She arrived, young and passionate and ready to teach in August.. By winter break, something had shifted, possibly broken within her. Not due to any outward signs, but due to her not returning in January to her classroom. Her last hurrah: an unknown later associate appeared to drop of her school issued computer and left, saying nothing.

I’ve thought a lot about her, and what she might have gone through, where she may have ended up.

Among these seventy or so students were maybe ten who were consistently misbehaving, but those few held the grade level hostage. Physical fights, cursing, insubordination and brazen disrespect toward adults. None of this was mentioned to me when I interviewed, during my model lesson, or when I was offered the position.

No, I had to find out in real time.

I also had to discover for myself that, in the face of this open disrespect, chaos, and stress, I was expected not only to teach, but to manage the emotional issues, defiance, IEP/504 special needs, and electronic testing data of these 70 plus students. What admin called “support’ was actually long meetings occupying most planning periods and stretches of unpaid hours afterschool for 2-3 days per month, checklists of strategies to implement on my own, and requests to research and report back to admin on my findings related to classroom management. Teaching assistants? Basically a figment of my imagination. When I inquired about that I was told, “No. No one gets teaching assistants at this grade level.”

I met students who were clearly products of less-than-ideal environments, and many from obviously loving and stable homes. I had eleven years olds speak to me in such disdainful tones, any adult brain would short circuit. Yet I persevered. I spent weekends and nights lesson planning, researching, strategizing. Unpaid. I stayed after school for hours rearranging desks, making seating charts, vacuuming multicolored crumbs out of the classroom carpet. (They were wierdly obsessed with Takis and Hot Cheetos for some reason). Doing data analysis. Also unpaid.

I fell behind on my graduate studies, my writing for publication.. At my house, laundry piled up, errands went undone for weeks. I barely cooked, had no energy to plan or shop for food. I had to recreate my wardrobe as the strict, no jeans dress code for teachers meant I had little I could actually wear to work.

I did all this, to my own detriment, because there were students who needed me. They were trying, I could see it. Many struggled academically but tried, showed me basic respect, and did as I asked. I told them all the time, I only cared about effort, I wasn’t looking for or expecting them to be correct or perfect. I saw sensitive little girls who needed encouragement and inquisitive boys in need of reassurance. I tried my best to be there, to meet those needs, because as an empathetic person, I didn’t know how not to.

I increased my therapy frequency to deal with the stress. I lost weight due to the lack of time to plan, prepare, or eat a decent meal. My skin and hair dried out. Stomach issues from the past reappeared. I couldn’t sleep. I ranted to my wife each evening about what I’d experienced that day, to the point of upsetting her as well.

At the end of the first week back from Spring Break, with “buy in” achieved for “EOG Bootcamp” and a noticable growth in ELA testing progress across the grade level, I was unceremoniously fired.

ELA testing over the magical internet based software took place 72 hours before I was fired. An administrator messaged me, 48 hours before I was let go, that our students had gone from 29% progress to “typical growth” at midyear, right before I came, to 85%. Hello, hi. I’m the English teacher. So that means I did that. If the scores had gone down you’d best believe it would have been my fault, so credit where credit is due, right? WRONG.

In tears, I listened to a half-assed, somewhat rushed explanation for why “we’re gonna go ahead and make today your last day.” No classroom management. Good teacher, can’t handle this age level. Not a good fit for you. Happy to write a positive recommendation.

I thought of Ms. Stevens again then. It made me angry. Because she saw what I saw, and walked away. Never looked back. Probably in the name of self-preservation.

I’d come to care so much for these students, despite the disrespect and the chaos, that I stayed. I wanted to make it to the end of the year, see them pass the state tests and have a promotion ceremony. So, I stayed, risking my well-being and my health.

The consideration I gave to my students was NOT, at any point, given to me. Least of all on this day. I was pushed out, making earlier praise of my teaching skills seem hollow and dishonest. In tears, I cleared everything I’d paid for out of my room, down to the paper towels and hand sanitizer. I ripped the $60 custom printed posters with my class rules and consequences off the wall.

Ms. Stevens had the sense to leave on her own.. I stayed too long at the circus and the clowns attacked me, devoured a part of my soul. Some of the light had faded from my eyes. I wonder if I’ll ever get it back.

I don’t yet have words for what I’ve experienced over those last 10 weeks. I feel relieved to be out of there. An unclear contract, with no start and end dates and a flimsy verbal promise meant I didn’t get anywhere near what I felt I was due in terms of severance. Now I recover, try to put the broken pieces of myself back together, and grieve.

It is not lost on me that on this very day, an 11-year-old white male child declared, in front of God and all mankind (the lobby of the school was packed), “I’m going to get you fired!” Despite what was said to me in the office by an emotionless school administrator, that child will never be convinced that he didn’t get his way, that he didn’t cause my termination. He will no doubt become a pint-sized tyrant, threatening to do away with any adult who doesn’t do his bidding. I have sympathy for the two remaining teachers and for whoever they sucker into taking on the position after me.

Beyond that, he’s received his first lesson in white man-dom. He knows now that, when he bellows,he can cause the suffering of women and people of color. That may sound overdramatic, and I promise you I don’t care. I’ve lived my entire life in this country as a Black woman, and I call them as I see them.

My heart aches for the professional disrespect I was dealt that day, but more for those children who truly needed a teacher who cared and who would help them discover their own greatness. So many approached me the day before I was dismissed, smiling and excited, to tell me their test scores; many experienced exponential growth under my instruction. I was teaching “as if my hair were on fire,” according to my mentor teacher, a seasoned vet whom I deeply admire. The students were learning.

But it wasn’t enough. For the school, it was more important to maintain a perfect image, to show the corporate suits and state board shiny data, to placate parents who might sue, involve police, or leave a bad review online somewhere. What I experienced in service of this mindset was abusive, full stop.

Truly, I hope only the best for those sweet, shy little girls who looked up to me or found me a safe place; for those young boys trying to figure themselves out who confided in me, showed me their artwork, or cracked silly jokes at my desk. For my former colleagues, talented teachers who truly care and do their best to foster these children’s academic and personal success.

And for Ms. Stevens, who fought this battle before me.