Capsized

When your work is so much more than just work.

The other day during my lunch break, I decided to utilize our free employee-assistance counseling service. That’s right, I called an emergency therapist. I wanted to try it; I had no idea what to expect.

I’ve been feeling sad. The irony is my personal life is going along swimmingly. My own children are at fabulous ages, 4 and 7. They are healthy and happy. My family is cohesive and fun. We even got away for a day of skiing recently. The source of my strife is all coming from one place, work. Specifically, the chaos that swarms my district at every turn.

Which leads me to my next question: is my school district cursed? It certainly seems like it.

On February 11th, the Roundtable reported on an extremely disturbing story. If you haven’t read it, do so with care.

Carlos Mendez, a longtime local administrator, was charged with the sexual abuse of minors. Most recently, he served as the assistant principal at a local elementary school. The other adult named in the case is Maribel Flores-Hernandez, a local paraprofessional.

I worked for Mr. Mendez during his time as assistant principal at my previous school, where I taught for over ten years. He was one of my three bosses during the 2011-2012 school year, when I was still a young, impressionable teacher. All in all, Mr. Mendez mostly avoided me. He felt unknowable, with high walls and a permanent smirk. I shudder to think of it now. Once I saw him lose his temper. Other than that, truly, he kept a low profile, stayed under the radar.

Obviously, this news has shaken our community, and rightfully so.

Professionally, I feel empty and a bit shattered. Working here, sending my children to these schools, living in this community… it continues to exhaust and demoralize. Whether it be the indictment of Dr. Horton, followed by the school-closing-fiasco and the budget-deficit-reduction-shenanigans, and now this??

I read an email the other day reminding me to take care of yourself. I guess I’m wondering what that actually means. How, exactly, am I supposed to do that?

This school district is so much more than my place of work. Some days it seems a part of my very genetic makeup. My mother and grandmother were both educators and former union presidents. My stepsister is the current union president. My child attends these schools; my youngest starts next year. We are lifelong-multigenerational community members. I basically grew up in the halls of Kingsley school. My best friend and I, both daughters of Kingsley teachers, took turns pushing one another down long, empty hallways sitting atop rolling desk chairs, while our moms’ attended after school staff meetings or prepped their classrooms for the next day. This place is a part of me.

But institutions are corrupt. They are fallible. And as much as I once used to and sometimes still love this place, as much as it is part of me, as much as I once believed in it’s power to provide for children, I realize it is only as strong and as capable as those who sit at the helm.

Which leads me back to my lunch break therapy call. An older woman answered the hotline. What’s going on? she asked.

Well, it’s kind of a last straw situation, I responded. A former boss from a million years ago was charged with something really bad. This, and many other things, have caused me to completely lose faith that anything I do can make a difference. But I still want to believe it can get better here. Because all of it is a huge part of my identity.

She paused. Are you a teacher?

Yes, I responded.

Well, you are not alone. So many teachers feel this way. Haven’t you heard? The system is broken. All you can do is focus on the kids in front of you. Close your door and provide a safe space for those children in your care, because you never know how badly they might need it. Especially with these shady characters it seems like you all have over there. You can’t control all this! So stop trying. Let go of what you cannot change.

I let her words wash over me, nodding on the other end of the telephone line, small tears pinpricking the corners of my eyes.

I just want to fight, I told her. It’s my gut reaction.

She chuckled. You can’t win, though. It’s impossible. The system is too big to fight all on your own. Let go, she urged, of what you can’t control.

I had a hard time hearing this. I’ve convinced myself I am much more powerful than I actually am. But she’s absolutely right. There are some battles that aren’t winnable.

This ship has already capsized. We’re in the long, slow sink to the bottom.

I’m left with this thought. This community isn’t perfect, but it’s home, and I choose to believe we will rebuild.