ScreamFree Articles

As a teacher, I know when I am susceptible to burnout. And a few weeks ago, the writing was on the wall – make that the dry erase board. I was in trouble. Little things that I used to handle with ease were making me snap. The knot in the middle of my shoulder blades was so big that I decided to name it. When I actually uttered the phrase, “This is the most difficult school year I’ve ever had!”, I knew I was on the verge. Um…remember last year, Jenny? I had cancer, for crying out loud! I taught through chemotherapy and radiation. I looked like a bloated mannequin back then, only less tan. Now I am fully recovered and can even complain about bad hair days again. So how did this school year get so bad?

I think it all started with a pet peeve. I grade a boatload of papers and my eyes are none too good, so I cannot stand it when my students write on both sides of the page. Their handwriting is hard enough to decipher on a good day, but when I have to read their doctor-esque script through the bleeding ink from the other side of the paper, it becomes darn near impossible. So, on the first day of class, I tell my eager young scholars that they are to write on the front of the page only, in pen, on loose leaf paper. If they fail to do so, I will deduct points from the assignment.

Simple enough request, right? I thought so too. Until the first wave of papers came back. I found myself swimming neck deep in smudgy pencil marks, with unintelligible scribble on both sides of crumpled up spiral paper. Not just one or two, mind you, but the vast majority.. Something must have gone wrong. They must have misheard my instructions. I couldn’t possibly take points off if this indeed were the case, so I decided to talk to the kids about the problem and explain myself in more detail. I didn’t want to start off the year coming across as a tyrant. I decided to give them another chance.

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So I lectured, and they listened. They nodded and I sighed in relief. But next round of papers? More of the same. This time, I huffed and complained. I shook my head and threw up my hands. And what was the result? You guessed it… more of the same. It actually even got worse. The papers weren’t the only things going terribly wrong now. Kids were bringing assignments in late, whining about tests being too difficult, and forgetting their books and materials on a regular basis.

Sure, they complained and begged for understanding, and for even more chances. The more “understanding” I was of their circumstances, though, the worse things got. And then I couldn’t understand why they didn’t appreciate me. I was doing so much for them! Why didn’t they try harder? Study more? Follow directions?

They didn’t have to.

I was taking on all of their responsibilities as my own, and it was wearing me out. In the name of fairness and grace, I was trying to teach them lessons without the benefit of life’s greatest teacher, the natural and logical consequences of their actions. I had been letting those consequences slide. And the respect from my students slid away as well. I realized that my continually giving them second chances wasn’t really about my love for them. It was about my lack of ability to handle their displeasure. And it was producing two horrible results:

1. My bitterness toward my students was growing like kudzu on a fence. It was choking out any affection I had for these kids in the first place.
2. My students could see the fear and apathy in my eyes and they were the worse for it.

I sometimes find the same thing happening to me at home. I wind up compromising my standards just to avoid my kids’ initial, and often annoying, resistance. In an earlier article I wrote for this newsletter, I talked about the idea of strapping on a bullet proof vest when dealing with your kids. Now that I really think about it , the metaphor of a flak jacket, the kind quarterbacks wear in football, is a bit more “fitting,”. Kids of all ages do not intentionally do things to make us angry, at least not usually. I don’t believe that they wake up in the morning scheming ways to make us miserable, although it certainly does seem that way at times. Instead, I think the venom that they sometimes spew is more like flak. The term flak comes from the German word for anti-aircraft weaponry, Fliegerabwehrkanone. Try saying that three times fast. Flak is a defense mechanism. It is meant to protect the desired target from being hit.

I prefer to think of the resistance from my kids in the classroom, and at home, less like bullets and more like flak. If I am “catching flak” that must mean that I am hitting the target, or at least I’m getting close. Putting on a flak jacket is not about gearing up for war. It’s more like being aware that kids are going to resist things they don’t want to do, even those things that are good for them. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to us when they drag their heels at bedtime, snap at me when they’re tired, or continually write on both sides of the paper. Such behaviors should not be excused, but neither should they be taken so personally.

And that’s where I take a wrong turn: I get caught up in the moment of things and I take the kids’ unhappiness personally. It’s not that I want them to all like me (although maybe on some level that’s exactly what it is); instead, I find myself thinking that I’m not doing a good job if they are not cooperating. How ridiculous is that? What ends up happening is that I bend myself like a pretzel trying to get them to cooperate and I find myself resentful of their actions when they don’t. Deep down, I think I’m angry at myself for contorting and I end up taking it out on them.

This all came to light one night in a short conversation with a very astute (and often annoying) therapist I happen to live with. After complaining about a particularly hard day at school and desperately searching for sympathy, I looked to Hal for a nod of his head and his ire on my side. Instead, my adoring husband looked me right in the eye and said, “Hmm. Sounds pretty arrogant.”

I immediately jumped on that thought and agreed. “I know! Can you believe that these kids keep doing the same annoying things? How many times am I going to have to tell them…” My voice trailed off into the night. I had actually said the phrase. The one I promised myself I would never utter. Although I knew what was coming next, it still stung as he said it.

“No. I meant you. It sounds like you have a pretty high opinion of yourself to think that just because you say it they should do it.”

It’s not easy living with a therapist, by the way, but that’s for another article. Of course, he was right. In my mind, I did such an amazing job laying out the reasons and rationale that the children should have automatically taken my word on the subject and internalized that lesson for the rest of their lives. The problem? I am dealing with people, not machines, and that’s not how people work. If I stop and think about it, how did I learn lessons from childhood, adolescence, or even adulthood? Through experiencing the consequences of my actions.

Kids will be kids and that’s ok. It doesn’t mean that I have to allow them to misbehave (or write on both sides of the page), but I shouldn’t be shocked when they do. More than a mountain of second chances, what they need from me is Stability. Strength. Peace. I can be mature enough to withstand the blows of a child’s tantrum or the rolling eyes of a teenager. I should be humble enough to know that kids aren’t going learn everything by my excellent explanations. The pleading and cajoling on my part, either at home or at school, is doing nothing but furthering the pattern.

What needs to happen is simple. I’ve got to get back to the basics. You’d think I’d be sick of the ScreamFree principles by now, and at times, I must admit, I am. But those dang principles really do work. What would happen if instead of cringing at the thought of enforcing a consequence, I saw it as a chance to provide strong leadership? What would happen if instead of acting like a taskmaster, I led like a tour guide? What if instead of dodging the flak, I sought it out? How would things change?

I can’t predict how doing that will change my students or my kids, but that’s not really the point. What I do know is that just thinking about all of this has changed me. I feel lighter. I feel a sense of relief. I feel the muscles on my face relaxing for the first time in a good while. I feel a little less responsible for these kids, and a little more responsible to them.

I feel like finding some papers with writing on both sides and letting my red pen do the “screaming” for a change.