Just over a week into my teaching career and I already heave a wealth of stories to tell. Do I "know" what I'm doing? Not yet. Am I "confident" in my strengths and abilities? A little. Am I enjoying myself? So far.
When I initially found out I would be teaching freshmen, I gulped audibly. My palms beaded up with sweat and my face felt hot. Not only are freshmen somewhere around fourteen years old (in dangerously close proximity to the purgatory of Middle School), but I also felt some strange weight of helplessness. I assumed that the glory and the life changing and the truths and verities of American Lit came later in the high school process. While all of these things are most decidedly true, I'm starting to find a great deal of comfort in being a teacher of freshmen.
Being green with inexperience, high school is once again terrifying. I don't know anybody’s name, I don't know where the band room is, and I don't know who can fix your broken locker. Here’s the thing, though: freshmen don’t know anything either. So I share the boat with these folks who were born after Kurt Cobain died. I spend my days with these people to whom Zach Morris is a stranger. So far, so good.