Hard Times: And Not the Dickens Kind

This teaching job in inner city Atlanta through – I’ll say a very prestigious organization - was suppose to be the first rung on my latter to success. It seemed to fit perfectly into what I ultimately want. While in graduate school in Portland Oregon I read all this theory about education, and I came to the conclusion that teaching is a job where you really can affect widespread change. And I still believe that. Teaching is not a “work to live” job where work simply pays the bills and when you’re done you can come home and live your real life. I had a job like that during my time after getting my bachelor’s and before going back to school to get my master’s. It was during that time that I came to the conclusion that I wanted a job where I could feel like what I did mattered. I wanted to help people in some way and contribute to the community where I lived. Providing a quality education to students in under-resourced schools fit all three criteria. And teaching is what I ultimately want to do. Granted high school was never my ultimate career-goal, college is more where I feel in my element, but the experience of teaching, itself, is a step in the right direction. Finally, I could work in Atlanta. When you’re married you have to think about more than yourself. I loved Portland and the life we had made during our two years there, but my spouse had a difficult time finding work. Atlanta meant good jobs in both our prospective careers; a land of opportunity if you will.

However the opportunity quickly turned into a no-man’s land where I was simply sputtering. Well, more like treading water, trying not to drown. I was constantly overwhelmed by the amount of work I had to do. From 5:30am until 9:00pm I was lesson planning, grading papers, making copies, searching for material, having emotional breakdowns, and trying to pull myself together. I knew I was miserable, but I kept telling myself that things would get better. And they did. In fact it took a breakdown one Sunday night where I just could not imagine going to school the next morning, a.k.a. panic attach, for me to finally call my advisor (provided by aforementioned organization). He told me get some boundaries. I had to know when it was an appropriate time to work, getting as much done as I possibly could. And when I had to simply leave work at work and take the rest of the day to myself.

So I did. I still got up at 5:30, but I tried to be done every day at 5. I was able to come home and unwind, relax, and think. And all I could think about was how miserable I was. Yes, I was able to leave work at work, but now I found that the adjustment from real life to work was much harder to transition into. I stopped having as many panic attacks, but I was still in the dole drums. During a phone call with my mom, everything started to come together. Number one, I was depressed. I would break into crying fits for no reason, well thinking about work would start me off. And even when I had days off all I could think about was how much I was dreading having to actually work. I just could not get work off of my mind. Number two, my heart was not in it. That was the ah hah moment for me. Part of the reason I was feeling this way was because I was trying to deny to myself the fact that I did not love what I was doing. I had no heart for a job that is all about heart. Yes, I believe that all children should have a quality education, and I definitely wanted to be a part of making that happen. But the whole truth is that the main reason I even decided to look into this job was because of the opportunity. I could go to work every day feeling good about knowing that what I was doing was making a difference. The only problem was that I was not happy to go to work every morning. And although I was arguably “making a difference”, I knew that I was not living up to my full potential because I was so unhappy. It is difficult to motivate anyone when you yourself are not motivated, let alone a room full of teenagers.

The Begining

It was not an easy decision to make; in fact it was one of the hardest. I had wanted this job. I had done everything I possibly could to achieve it. I had drawn it to me because from the instant I read what they were looking for and saw that I could be placed in Atlanta, I knew I would get it. I had moved all the way, back, across the country for this job. I had suffered through weeks of what I can say without a doubt was the hardest experience of my life, otherwise known as training. I had even lived for three months without pay and therefore spent nearly all of my “cushion”, the remainder of my school loan money.

I had received exactly what I had wanted and worked so hard for. And now all I can think about is how badly I want to quit. I hate saying that. Even more, I hate admitting it to myself. I am not a quitter. In fact, I’m the type of person who will quietly and slowly suffer through a painful situation because I refuse to let go of the little piece of vain hope that somehow, someway, it will get better. If I just hang on a little longer, the clouds will magically lift and blue skies will show through. Some may call this masochistic, but I’ve always considered it an attribute. I don’t give up on people; I don’t give up on my goals; I don’t give up on… my job.

Yet here I am – a quitter.