Teardrops

Few people have ever seen me cry, and I mean really cry, not the tears that come from a movie or a painful sprain. It's not because I don't have emotions or don't care enough to ever cry over something. It's because when I cry, I have to be completely alone. I hold everything in until I finally find a place by myself where I can let it all go and not worry about what people think of me. Some days I'll hurt inside so badly; all I'll want to do is cry, but I can't. Today was one of those days.

One of the parents sent an email to my cooperating teacher telling her how her child hated the student teacher and never understood anything in class because the student teacher never explained things and didn't offer to help students who struggled. She also mentioned how mean and cruel this student teacher was to the rest of the students in the class and that something needed to be done to fix the situation. It was an awful letter. When I first read it, the thought that she was talking about me didn't really register. How terrible that a student teacher would be cruel to her students! When I finally realized that it was ME she was describing, I lost my ability to talk. It felt like fingers had wrapped tightly around my neck and were slowly choking me. How could something like this happen? I care so much about my students. I would do anything for them. I spend hours and hours planning and preparing for my lessons, trying to make them fun and interesting and easy to understand. I work so incredibly hard, and to know that a student in my class thinks that I don't care hurts so much.

The rest of the day felt like a blur. I taught five classes in a row, and while I was teaching, I paid close attention to every detail. Everything that happened felt like it happened in slow motion. In the past when students would not pay attention the way I felt they should, it wouldn't bother me because I'd simply walk by their desks and remind them to get back on task. Today, however, was different. I realized for the first time that I wasn't the one in charge of the classroom. The students were. And you know what hurts even more than someone thinking that I don't care? It's the fact that the students don't care. They don't care about doing well in life. They want things handed to them on a silver platter. They don't care about working, trying, or even listening. I know there are exceptions, but most of them don't care. It's the way the public school system of America is run. Students are forced to go to school, so they just don't care about doing well. It's the teacher's responsiblity, not the student's responsibility, to make them learn.

So after holding in my tears all morning throughout five long classes, I couldn't take it anymore. As soon as the last student left, I closed my door, turned off the lights, and found a corner in the room. I was crying before my knees touched the floor.