Gum Smacking and Pen Chewing

It is now the space between stress and preparation. Between execution and anticipation.

Hello there first Saturday.

The weekend has become a sacred space. A homely space. A quiet space. This is the day that work can wait. And grading can wait. And planning can wait. Everything can wait while the things I must do everyday pause for the span of forty-eight hours.

Giving me a moment

to reflect.

This week, I exchanged my teacher's virginity for the harsh reality of spending eleven hours at school, 6:15 to 5:15. Each day. Monday through Friday. Florescent lights have become my sunshine. Notebook paper has become my breakfast. And countdowns from five and behavior narration have become the water that chases it all down.

I have learned what it means to live teaching, to breath teaching, to eat teaching. Supper is the part of the day when I scrap together the few groceries I own (there is no need for them for the majority of the day) to make a meal that is hot and eaten on a plate.

How refreshing it is to not eat PB&J at a school desk with writing scratched into it.

But this first week, along with teaching me that I cannot do this on my own, taught me how to cherish the moments that make it all worth it.

"Ms. Perkins?" Destiny said as she motioned me over to her desk.

"Yes, dear?"

"May I make an announcement?"

And within seconds I heard the voice of a twelve-year-old explaining--to the entire class--that she liked to give presents to her favorite teacher at the beginning of the year. After this proclamation, she handed me a small box, smiled, and picked up her pencil, continuing to work on her project.

Favorite?

The school year has just started. I am already exhausted. But I am also already head over heels in love with my students. Some of them anyway. And, as for the rest of them, we are well on our way. Even if they don't like to follow directions the first time. Or second. Or third.

So this is it. The end of week one and very nearly the beginning of week two.

I am nervous.

And scared.

Overwhelmed.

But hopeful.

And eager to see what new adventures room 107 will bring as ninety students walk through my door on Monday, ready to share their stories in the midst of their gum smacking (which must stop at the door) and endless pen chewing.

Here. There. And who knows where.

It's August.

When did that happen?

Suddenly, I find myself pausing for exactly four minutes to stop. To reflect. To remember that I am still breathing normally, still sleeping minimally, and still hoping endlessly that the vision I have will become reality.

School starts in six days.

This is a countdown that, though implicit, has been relentlessly ticking all summer. It was ticking when I graduated in May. It was ticking when I spent three short weeks in Orlando. And it was ticking all summer as I went through the intensive Teach For America training known as Institute.

Or, as we corps members like to call it, Institution.

Institutionalization. We lived it, breathed it, slept it, owned it. From getting up at 5 every morning, to collapsing well past midnight every night, we learned the lingo of an organization fighting for change.

There were times when we laughed.

Those were the times when we realized just how ridiculous it sounded when we asked each other, "Have you talked to your CMA about your LP? I think my AIT may need some help from my INV plan and my BMC." We learned the acronyms. And we practiced the models (sometimes with "snappy practice" and sometimes with just plain, regular practice).

There were times when we narrated behavior.

"I see Shelli is working on her lesson plan. I see Elisabeth is silently reading. I see Ben is falling asleep." But apart from using this powerful tool to amuse our friends we watched it work like a tried and true magic trick in our classrooms. There were days when simply mentioning that Emanuel's desk was clean meant that Levi on the opposite side of the room would suddenly stop and make sure his papers were also neat.

Notice me, my students seemed to say with their little motions done by little hands. Please.

And I did. We did.

And the summer was different because of it.

You are capable, I told them each morning as we struggled through writing our rough drafts. You, as an individual, talented, rising 8th grade student are capable.

Valued.

Loved.

You, Armando. You, Jose. You, Erika. You, Andy. You are important to me. You are going to succeed.

There were times when those words were all we clung to. These students can, will, and want to make it. And we were there to help them. LA left us changed. LA left me changed.

And now, after five exhausting weeks of learning about BMCs and AITs, I am here, in Kansas City. Here, in the midwest. Here, at Central High School, getting ready for the first day of many days of fighting against the clock.

You, students in classroom 107. You are capable. And you, teacher in room 107, face I wake to every morning, individual who I have come to know well over the years, you are capable. You have been trained. You have been taught. You have been equipped.

Are you ready?

The heart in my chest quivers and sighs. The limbs of my body tense, then relax. The thoughts in my mind race and then still.

I am not ready. But He is.

And they are.

And together, we will conquer this year, my students and I. We will prove to ourselves that we are strong. We will prove to each other we care. We will prove to our school we are scholars. And we will prove to the Kansas City Missouri School District that this year is going to be different.

When did this happen?

When did I step into the most challenging work of my life?

Sometime, I think, between yesterday and tomorrow. I am here. Present. Living day to day. Praying every hour. Loving every moment.

It's going to be a good year.