For the record, I am not a big crier. Okay, NPR Story Corps Project stories sometimes get me, for example how a young soldier was disfigured in war and his newlywed bride stuck by his side, making the two inseparable and stronger than ever. But I am not an emotional sap. In fact, my husband will tell you that life has to get pretty difficult for me to cry. But it never fails. Every single time I get together with my Capital District Writing Project colleagues, as we sit around a large boardroom table with our laptops and notebooks having rich professional conversations, usually punctuated by laughter - I feel the emotion well up inside of me and, without fail, thin, hot tears eek out of the sides of my eyes. Every. Single. Time.
Crying in front of colleagues whom I admire and respect, though they are accepting, always makes me feel slightly embarrassed ('There's no crying in teaching!'). But I am rarely ever as moved as when I'm working with CDWP teachers. What causes me to be so emotional in the CDWP community that I cannot keep the tears inside? What is it that brings forth such an emotional storm within me? What is it that leaves me feeling so raw? After much reflecting (and many tears), I understand more deeply why I cry.
I cry because we are writers, immersed in the craft we teach. We understand that writing, like creating art, provides an opportunity for deeper understanding, a vehicle through which we interact with our students and ourselves in more complex and sophisticated ways. I cry because this deeper engagement with life inspires me.
I cry because I feel the power and energy of a shared mission, a profound purpose in educating young people, the importance of teaching them how to use writing for a variety of purposes - all of which transcend the test. I am surrounded by teachers who teach students to inquire, engage with, discuss, debate, and discover things around them so that, through writing, they might transform the world. I cry because CDWP teachers see the power our young people should have and are working desperately to give students access to it.
I cry because I am overwhelmed by the daunting journey of teaching. We face so many challenges - poverty, apathy, lack of parent support, lack of financial support, political maneuvering, and a culture of teacher-blaming; we aren't just teachers, we are social workers, parents, psychologists, cheer-leaders, coaches, and confidantes. I cry because it is a mostly thankless job, and it is hard, and I am tired.
I cry because I am humbled by the power and strength of the individual acts of defiance that CDWP teachers promulgate in our classrooms. We defy being pigeonholed into teaching in artificial and standardized ways. We honor our students as human beings with unique gifts and strengths. We refuse to allow the powers that be dictate what we know as professionals to be best for students. We strive to inspire and motivate them. I cry because I feel our power.I cry because I feel the power and energy of a shared mission, a profound purpose in educating young people, the importance of teaching them how to use writing for a variety of purposes - all of which transcend the test. I am surrounded by teachers who teach students to inquire, engage with, discuss, debate, and discover things around them so that, through writing, they might transform the world. I cry because CDWP teachers see the power our young people should have and are working desperately to give students access to it.
I cry because I am overwhelmed by the daunting journey of teaching. We face so many challenges - poverty, apathy, lack of parent support, lack of financial support, political maneuvering, and a culture of teacher-blaming; we aren't just teachers, we are social workers, parents, psychologists, cheer-leaders, coaches, and confidantes. I cry because it is a mostly thankless job, and it is hard, and I am tired.
I cry because we understand that the best teachers are forever learners. We share the excitement that comes from engaging in meaningful learning, striving to become the best teachers that we can be, constantly examining our practice and honing our craft. Our teaching is not stagnant or stifled; we are evolving and blossoming. I cry because we are alive.
Finally, I cry because the rich conversations fill me with life. We discuss, inquire, inspire, share, support, and recognize one another as teachers and writers. These interactions sustain me, invigorate me with inspiration. I cry because when all is said and done, I feel more human.
Letting the tears fall at professional meetings, as unconventional as the meetings are, will likely never stop making me feel slightly self-conscious. And after much reflection I now understand that it is the empowerment and engagement which get me so emotional, but there's one question that still weighs on my heart: How can I get more?