Chemistry
Didn't see that one coming. I guess we never do, not the bad stuff. Well, most of the bad stuff.
I've been a choir director for almost 9 years and am in my 6th year of teaching. Music is my world, my profession, dare I say- my calling- and a man I've literally had one full conversation with knocked the wind out of me with one sentence: "We're not gonna be able to offer you a contract for the fall." Gonna. Easy as that. Slang with a smile. In case that doesn't translate to a non-teacher, I've been fired.
Irony: The one conversation I had previously with this individual consisted of his encouragement to keep it up at the gym. Staff luncheon. I told him I felt out of place sometimes because I'm such a beginner. He told me that the most respected people at the gym are the ones who keep going, the regulars. It doesn't matter how fit they are or how loudly they grunt in front of the mirror.
Why was I fired? Well, I just so happen to live in a "right to work" state, which means anyone can be dismissed at any time for any reason. Or no reason. Can I just say that no reason is a zillion percent worse than 10 reasons? Or one reason? It leaves so much space in your head for the darkest, most creative, barely audible whispers to swirl around and multiply until things get real, real foggy. BUT, to be completely transparent, I shouldn't say, "no reason."
The chemistry's not right.
Verbatim. Chemistry. I guess he doesn't know I took 4 semesters of Chemistry in college. With lab. General Chemistry and Organic Chemistry. I actually have oodles of Chemistry. Just ask Dr. El-Bermawy. Maybe if I bring in my transcripts and highlight those credit hours, he'll rethink this.
*Cue whispers*
This job? Or any job? Choir, period? Any choir? I've never been good at this? I've never been the right man for the job? What have I been doing for 3 years? For 6 years? For 9 years? When, where and how did I lose my FRICKIN CHEMISTRY?
Let's talk for a moment about what it means to be a teacher. Particularly, a performing arts teacher. We're a different breed. I think any teacher would tell you that. We all have our niche, and we all chose our battlefield. Performing arts teachers chose passion. We picked the stickiest, most emotional, dangerous, most underrated and underfunded content area because our hearts are hungry. Our brains are lit up like a Christmas tree, 24/7. Our creative souls bubble and foam make a mess everywhere. We are children trapped inside adult bodies, shoving our art into the face of anyone who will pay attention to us for longer than 30 seconds. We wouldn't care about getting paid to do what we do, except that adulting is so damn expensive, we're forced to ask for compensation.
And then, there are our students. Oh, they're so beautiful! They take my breath away (this is getting personal, now). They're curious and smart and loving and gifted and brave, also... terrified. Their inner child doesn't have much room to move around, yet, and the tight fit seems awkward. Thus, junior high. And high school. Still hard.
Today was a horrible day. That sentence isn't interesting or creative, but it's true. Today was the day I told my students. "I am crushed." I cried. "You are my heart." I sobbed. "This decision was made for me." I had talking points scribbled on a small rectangle of paper, one that I took from the magnetic pad on my fridge. My glasses were smudged with tears all day, and I felt like I was going to vomit. Six periods of students, each class so precious in as many ways as there are students, and, by the last class, I was dry. No more tears left (consider yourself lucky if you've never experienced "no tears left"). My head hurt, and I was pretty sure I would puke at any moment. They didn't get the ugly cry, but I hope they got my message.
A few years ago, I left a choir director position at a church where I'd worked for 4 years. I still say that was the hardest decision I've ever made. I wrote a letter to my choir that I read to them, word for word, cried and cried. They didn't see it coming, but I had the power of choice. I knew it was right, and I knew it was hard, so I gritted my teeth and cut off my arm. That's how it felt. The only consolation, selfish, I guess, was that I knew I was wanted and would always have a place, there. I'm still in touch with those people I love, still catch up over dinner, even. When I remember, I attend their Christmas cantata and hug everyone's neck.
This is not that.
Here's another layer to my pity party: I was going to leave, anyway. Truth. This calling of mine, this messy, bubbly, beautiful, fulfilling career, it was robbing too much time from an even greater calling: motherhood. Family. My number one had competition, and they were becoming dangerously close to 50/50 in regards to my time and attention. "I'm so busy," had been my default phrase for too long, my excuse for picking up Livvi after hours from daycare 5 days a week, "can't remember our last date night," waking up on the couch at 11pm and not remembering when I'd fallen asleep, not contributing to family potlucks- all the big and little things that make a life. I had come to the extremely difficult admission that, for me, Mom and Wife had to truly come first, even if it meant my day job was, uh, just a day job.
I'd recently attended a meeting of the minds, the great choral directors in my area. It didn't take long for my heart to sink among this group of greats. Plaques and trophies and photos, accolades upon accolades, that unspoken deference and intimidation. "These aren't my people," kept ringing in my mind. I was sad. I so, so badly wanted them to be "my people." I thought I wanted the name, the reputation, possessed the willingness to put in the time, the creativity, the sacrifice to become part of this world and give my students the leadership and opportunities they deserved.
I'm not trying to demonize. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago where I saw myself in 5 years, this was it. Top of my game, hopefully done with my Master's degree and maybe on to my doctorate in Choral Conducting, sights set on a tenured college position, travel, respect and recognition. So, why is it that, now, the entire idea of pursuing and participating in that world makes me feel exhausted and unfulfilled?
Because Olivia.
Motherhood doesn't affect everyone like this, but, for a lot of women, it does. And, I'll admit, this might be a season. But the clock is ticking on these chubby cheeks and pull-ups, and I have to do it, now. I have to step away from the "too busy." Olivia and Tom, they need to become my "too busy." So, I was already planning to quit my job.
Walking into my contract renewal meeting, I had my speech mentally prepared, concise, no frills (I know you don't believe me, but, whatever). I'd considered bringing some points to ponder regarding a few ugly cracks in administrative procedure to the table, but said about a zillion prayers that God would help me to say only what needed to be said, and nothing that didn't.
Well, refer to paragraph 1.
Decision made for me.
Hurtful, bewildering.
All the stuff I already said.
Points to ponder, turned to dust before they reached my lips.
You know, today would have gone so much differently if I'd been allowed to speak first on that (literally) fateful morning. I'd like to think that I could have skipped the gut punch, knife in the heart, self-doubt, shame, hours of sobbing. Today, I would have seen some tears, some sympathy, a lot of understanding, and my students and I could have exchanged some stories and conversation about "family first." Instead, I saw the wind knocked out of my sweetest, most tender souls. My own confusion and pain reflected on their faces, a burden they shouldn't have to bear, but I honestly had NO EARTHLY OR HEAVENLY IDEA HOW TO AVOID IT. To add insult to injury (forgive the cliche), I was sitting right next to a Superior, 1st place trophy for a stellar choral performance in California only 3 days earlier. I'm not trying to be snobby, but my singers crushed it in the acoustically-fantastic (ok, a teensy bit echoey for my taste) sanctuary of that Presbyterian church. Good gracious. And there I was, talking to them about how proud I was, almost immediately followed by, "I'm sorry," and "I don't know why."
Perhaps that's where the faulty chemistry lies. Too many chemicals in the beaker. Too much heat, too little stirring? Coming out of solution, crystallizing?? Obscure analogies? Yeah. Let's just stop trying to remember those hours of chem lab so many years ago. I think it's a reach.
This announcement has been the heaviest weight on my heart and mind for several weeks. Over a month of walking on eggshells, choosing my words, listening to my gut about sharing vs not sharing with even my closest coworkers. With our competition also fast-approaching, the pressure and hours of preparation, combined with the stress of rumor-control and plugging the too-early "Roberti's leaving" leaks was unbearable. Toss in 3 days out of state with 5 ensembles, 120+ adults and students and all the human nature that goes along with it (did I mention an overnight drive?), and it seems like I should be feeling relieved, tonight. Trophy safely on my classroom shelf, a so-humble-it's-humbling 10th grader, with her own soloist medal, a cathartic day of busting out the news I'd been holding in... I will acknowledge that I feel a release has taken place, some weight lifted. But I was hoping for more.
Instead, I still feel tired and sad. Just less tired and sad. And the knowledge that my students have now been burdened with processing their feelings, complicated, maybe icky feelings, instead of, "I'm glad you're focusing on your family" feelings- that stings.
There's no way to tie up this blog post with a bow. I don't have anything cute to say. This is an ongoing conversation, a baited breath kind of waiting for something, anything.
So, I'll share a scene from Olivia's latest fave, "The Incredibles" (please pardon the YouTuber's misspelling, oh, the irony...).
What are you waiting for?
I don't know. Something amazing, I guess.
Me too, kid.
I've been a choir director for almost 9 years and am in my 6th year of teaching. Music is my world, my profession, dare I say- my calling- and a man I've literally had one full conversation with knocked the wind out of me with one sentence: "We're not gonna be able to offer you a contract for the fall." Gonna. Easy as that. Slang with a smile. In case that doesn't translate to a non-teacher, I've been fired.
Irony: The one conversation I had previously with this individual consisted of his encouragement to keep it up at the gym. Staff luncheon. I told him I felt out of place sometimes because I'm such a beginner. He told me that the most respected people at the gym are the ones who keep going, the regulars. It doesn't matter how fit they are or how loudly they grunt in front of the mirror.
Why was I fired? Well, I just so happen to live in a "right to work" state, which means anyone can be dismissed at any time for any reason. Or no reason. Can I just say that no reason is a zillion percent worse than 10 reasons? Or one reason? It leaves so much space in your head for the darkest, most creative, barely audible whispers to swirl around and multiply until things get real, real foggy. BUT, to be completely transparent, I shouldn't say, "no reason."
The chemistry's not right.
Verbatim. Chemistry. I guess he doesn't know I took 4 semesters of Chemistry in college. With lab. General Chemistry and Organic Chemistry. I actually have oodles of Chemistry. Just ask Dr. El-Bermawy. Maybe if I bring in my transcripts and highlight those credit hours, he'll rethink this.
*Cue whispers*
This job? Or any job? Choir, period? Any choir? I've never been good at this? I've never been the right man for the job? What have I been doing for 3 years? For 6 years? For 9 years? When, where and how did I lose my FRICKIN CHEMISTRY?
Let's talk for a moment about what it means to be a teacher. Particularly, a performing arts teacher. We're a different breed. I think any teacher would tell you that. We all have our niche, and we all chose our battlefield. Performing arts teachers chose passion. We picked the stickiest, most emotional, dangerous, most underrated and underfunded content area because our hearts are hungry. Our brains are lit up like a Christmas tree, 24/7. Our creative souls bubble and foam make a mess everywhere. We are children trapped inside adult bodies, shoving our art into the face of anyone who will pay attention to us for longer than 30 seconds. We wouldn't care about getting paid to do what we do, except that adulting is so damn expensive, we're forced to ask for compensation.
And then, there are our students. Oh, they're so beautiful! They take my breath away (this is getting personal, now). They're curious and smart and loving and gifted and brave, also... terrified. Their inner child doesn't have much room to move around, yet, and the tight fit seems awkward. Thus, junior high. And high school. Still hard.
Today was a horrible day. That sentence isn't interesting or creative, but it's true. Today was the day I told my students. "I am crushed." I cried. "You are my heart." I sobbed. "This decision was made for me." I had talking points scribbled on a small rectangle of paper, one that I took from the magnetic pad on my fridge. My glasses were smudged with tears all day, and I felt like I was going to vomit. Six periods of students, each class so precious in as many ways as there are students, and, by the last class, I was dry. No more tears left (consider yourself lucky if you've never experienced "no tears left"). My head hurt, and I was pretty sure I would puke at any moment. They didn't get the ugly cry, but I hope they got my message.
A few years ago, I left a choir director position at a church where I'd worked for 4 years. I still say that was the hardest decision I've ever made. I wrote a letter to my choir that I read to them, word for word, cried and cried. They didn't see it coming, but I had the power of choice. I knew it was right, and I knew it was hard, so I gritted my teeth and cut off my arm. That's how it felt. The only consolation, selfish, I guess, was that I knew I was wanted and would always have a place, there. I'm still in touch with those people I love, still catch up over dinner, even. When I remember, I attend their Christmas cantata and hug everyone's neck.
This is not that.
Here's another layer to my pity party: I was going to leave, anyway. Truth. This calling of mine, this messy, bubbly, beautiful, fulfilling career, it was robbing too much time from an even greater calling: motherhood. Family. My number one had competition, and they were becoming dangerously close to 50/50 in regards to my time and attention. "I'm so busy," had been my default phrase for too long, my excuse for picking up Livvi after hours from daycare 5 days a week, "can't remember our last date night," waking up on the couch at 11pm and not remembering when I'd fallen asleep, not contributing to family potlucks- all the big and little things that make a life. I had come to the extremely difficult admission that, for me, Mom and Wife had to truly come first, even if it meant my day job was, uh, just a day job.
I'd recently attended a meeting of the minds, the great choral directors in my area. It didn't take long for my heart to sink among this group of greats. Plaques and trophies and photos, accolades upon accolades, that unspoken deference and intimidation. "These aren't my people," kept ringing in my mind. I was sad. I so, so badly wanted them to be "my people." I thought I wanted the name, the reputation, possessed the willingness to put in the time, the creativity, the sacrifice to become part of this world and give my students the leadership and opportunities they deserved.
I'm not trying to demonize. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago where I saw myself in 5 years, this was it. Top of my game, hopefully done with my Master's degree and maybe on to my doctorate in Choral Conducting, sights set on a tenured college position, travel, respect and recognition. So, why is it that, now, the entire idea of pursuing and participating in that world makes me feel exhausted and unfulfilled?
Because Olivia.
Motherhood doesn't affect everyone like this, but, for a lot of women, it does. And, I'll admit, this might be a season. But the clock is ticking on these chubby cheeks and pull-ups, and I have to do it, now. I have to step away from the "too busy." Olivia and Tom, they need to become my "too busy." So, I was already planning to quit my job.
Walking into my contract renewal meeting, I had my speech mentally prepared, concise, no frills (I know you don't believe me, but, whatever). I'd considered bringing some points to ponder regarding a few ugly cracks in administrative procedure to the table, but said about a zillion prayers that God would help me to say only what needed to be said, and nothing that didn't.
Well, refer to paragraph 1.
Decision made for me.
Hurtful, bewildering.
All the stuff I already said.
Points to ponder, turned to dust before they reached my lips.
You know, today would have gone so much differently if I'd been allowed to speak first on that (literally) fateful morning. I'd like to think that I could have skipped the gut punch, knife in the heart, self-doubt, shame, hours of sobbing. Today, I would have seen some tears, some sympathy, a lot of understanding, and my students and I could have exchanged some stories and conversation about "family first." Instead, I saw the wind knocked out of my sweetest, most tender souls. My own confusion and pain reflected on their faces, a burden they shouldn't have to bear, but I honestly had NO EARTHLY OR HEAVENLY IDEA HOW TO AVOID IT. To add insult to injury (forgive the cliche), I was sitting right next to a Superior, 1st place trophy for a stellar choral performance in California only 3 days earlier. I'm not trying to be snobby, but my singers crushed it in the acoustically-fantastic (ok, a teensy bit echoey for my taste) sanctuary of that Presbyterian church. Good gracious. And there I was, talking to them about how proud I was, almost immediately followed by, "I'm sorry," and "I don't know why."
Perhaps that's where the faulty chemistry lies. Too many chemicals in the beaker. Too much heat, too little stirring? Coming out of solution, crystallizing?? Obscure analogies? Yeah. Let's just stop trying to remember those hours of chem lab so many years ago. I think it's a reach.
This announcement has been the heaviest weight on my heart and mind for several weeks. Over a month of walking on eggshells, choosing my words, listening to my gut about sharing vs not sharing with even my closest coworkers. With our competition also fast-approaching, the pressure and hours of preparation, combined with the stress of rumor-control and plugging the too-early "Roberti's leaving" leaks was unbearable. Toss in 3 days out of state with 5 ensembles, 120+ adults and students and all the human nature that goes along with it (did I mention an overnight drive?), and it seems like I should be feeling relieved, tonight. Trophy safely on my classroom shelf, a so-humble-it's-humbling 10th grader, with her own soloist medal, a cathartic day of busting out the news I'd been holding in... I will acknowledge that I feel a release has taken place, some weight lifted. But I was hoping for more.
Instead, I still feel tired and sad. Just less tired and sad. And the knowledge that my students have now been burdened with processing their feelings, complicated, maybe icky feelings, instead of, "I'm glad you're focusing on your family" feelings- that stings.
There's no way to tie up this blog post with a bow. I don't have anything cute to say. This is an ongoing conversation, a baited breath kind of waiting for something, anything.
So, I'll share a scene from Olivia's latest fave, "The Incredibles" (please pardon the YouTuber's misspelling, oh, the irony...).
What are you waiting for?
I don't know. Something amazing, I guess.
Me too, kid.
Comments
Post a Comment