A teacher's honest reflections on starting a new job, teaching twice-exceptional students, and balancing the messiness of education in 2024.
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| "Harried Teacher" (Image Credit: Greig Roselli ©2024) |
So, it’s November, and I haven’t posted in a while. Initially, I intended this blog to be a repository of thoughts, ideas, art, places I’ve been, kids I’ve taught, and lessons I’ve learned from the classroom. It’s meant to chronicle museums I’ve visited, books I’ve read, and experiences worth reflecting on. I still want it to be that. But life—particularly my life as an educator—has been anything but static since September. Starting a new job at a new school has consumed most of my bandwidth, leaving little room for reflection.
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| A snapshot from one of my days in the classroom—circa 2021 |
For context, my teaching journey has taken me across vastly different landscapes. I began in a Catholic school in New Orleans, (and don't forget my stint as a Benedictine monk working in an academic library). I was a graduate student, moved to New York, worked at the New York Public Library, taught as an adjunct at a two-year college, and spent a year teaching humanities to sixth graders in Harlem. I devoted eight years to a school in Jackson Heights, Queens, where I taught middle and high school students a mix of humanities and ESL. Now, I’ve landed at a private school for twice-exceptional (2E) students—learners who are both gifted and face learning differences, such as dyslexia, persistent demand avoidance, autism, or attention deficit profiles.
Starting anew has been equal parts invigorating and exhausting. No matter its mission or demographic, every school presents its own challenges and rewards. Yet, the universal truth of teaching is this: it’s an all-consuming job. There’s always “pre-work” to do before stepping into the classroom. And, increasingly, the generational shifts among students—compounded by the effects of COVID—have made the traditional classroom experience feel antiquated. Students seem less invested in conventional academic structures but more hungry than ever for authenticity and relevance.
My current school’s emphasis on neurodivergent learners has shifted my perspective on what education should look like. The mantra here is, “The social is academic, and the academic is social.” At first, this sounded like educational jargon, but working with my students has brought it to life. Teaching here feels a lot like riding the New York City subway. To get anywhere, everyone needs to collaborate. You step aside to let someone off the train; you take off your backpack to make room. It’s not perfect, but it works and is the same in the classroom. We accommodate each other’s needs and create space for everyone to thrive, even when messy.
My class sizes are small—no more than six or seven students per group—yet the diversity of needs can make it feel like managing a classroom of thirty. Each student’s learning profile is unique, which means cookie-cutter solutions don’t work. I quickly scrapped my original plan to teach two courses to split between four classes. Instead, I stacked all the books I planned to teach across my courses, laid them out, and asked students to participate in a ranked-choice vote. It was a beautiful exercise in agency and choice—though, inevitably, some still complained.
The result? Four completely different curriculums for four unique classes. While this approach has made my work exponentially harder, it’s also been rewarding. My students’ engagement rises when they feel ownership of their learning. But this level of customization requires constant energy, and by November, I’m spent.
I’ve been reflecting on the school labor divide—between teachers, administrators, and support staff. Despite being in a supportive environment, I sometimes feel the disconnect between those in the trenches of the classroom and those shaping broader policies or initiatives. It’s a gap that underscores the growing challenges of education in 2024. What does it mean to be a teacher today? What does the future of schooling hold?
For now, I’m left with more questions than answers. I know that teaching requires empathy—for students, colleagues, and, perhaps most importantly, for myself. It’s easy to be self-critical, to feel like I’m not doing enough or doing it well enough. But then, moments of connection with students remind me why I do this work.
One thing I love about my new job is how honest the kids are about their needs. They realize they have "lagging skills," even though they don't always buy in to my strategies to help (but, hey, that's human). I did have a breaking point a few days ago—when I realized that I was emotionally drained—but there is no rest for the wicked in education. You got to do it all over again the next day. But my students gave me a lift when we read a scene from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—and everybody gave their best effort in doing an American southern accent. It was a blast. I am so happy we are reading this play—it's fantastic!
So, here’s to embracing the exhaustion, the messiness, and the uncertainty. This post is less a polished reflection and more a snapshot of where I am. Let’s call it a work in progress.
