Notes From D.R. | Random Thoughts on the Passing Scene

Next week, you’ll head back to class. The summer has gone by in a second, and you’ll soon be back in a classroom that’s just as dusty as when you left it back in June.

The same light that was malfunctioning earlier this year is still flickering in and out. Your calls to have it fixed will still go unanswered.

There won’t be enough chalk, or enough pencils, or enough paper; after the first day of class, you’ll have to drive down to Staples to purchase some. You had to do that last year, and the year before. “Budget cuts” is the supposed reason you have to do this, though you can’t help wondering why those “budget cuts” never seem to extend to the superintendent’s salary. (And what does he do for that exorbitant check, anyway? When he took over a decade ago, there were only a handful of good schools in the system. Now, ten years later…there are still only a handful of good schools in the system.)

The kids will soon file in. Many will come from low-income families, some will not speak English as a first language. Some are determined to achieve, and some will not even care. You job description did not entail being a supplementary parent to these children, but for all intents and purposes, that will be your role. You’ll risk being verbally abused if you try to discipline some of them, and you’ll risk being demonized by their real parent or parents if you let them know that they’re not doing well in your class. If their test scores aren’t high enough, your boss—or his or her boss—will blame you and not them for their lack of achievement: you’ll even be accused by some folks of not expecting enough from them, even though you demand the best from them every day.

Perhaps you’ll get an e-mail later in the year from a former student—now an executive or an entrepreneur—who’ll let you know of the influence you had on his or her life. They’ll thank you for inspiring them, appreciate you for encouraging their dreams. It’ll bring you a moment of satisfaction—then the frustration and exasperation with the students and administration will hit you again, and that moment will pass just as swiftly as the summer.

For the most part, it’ll be another ten months of insecurity, undeserved criticism, stupidity from school headquarters, political scapegoating, and myriad other annoyances that will added more flecks of gray to what’s left of your hair.

Next week, you’ll head back to class. Because you’re a Boston Public School teacher, and you’re the most dedicated person in a job almost no one values.