September Song---Teaching in the Second Half of Life

Back when I was the library director of St Patrick's Seminary, I supervised a cataloger, in his late sixties, who consistently dozed on the job. One minute he would be looking at subject headings on his computer screen and the next moment, his head would drop forward, his eyes would close, and he would nap peacefully, leaning slightly forward in his chair.

He was an intelligent, soft spoken man and a fine cataloger, and the staff and I were willing to overlook it. After all, he did wake up on his own ,eventually, and the cataloging area was in a back office of the library, not visible to the public. I did mention his napping to him, and rather than being apologetic, he was  very defensive. He had heart disease and was on a new medication. How could I discriminate against someone who combatting illness?
He claimed that he had a long commute and it tired him out.
I, on the other hand, could walk to work.
He accused me of ageism.

I  folded...and let it go.
The roof was leaking over the library constructed in the 1890s.
There was fundraising to do.
The Internet was down.....again.
And the feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was approaching and I had to make a display.

All was sort of fine until one day........the West Coast Vocations Directors arrived. These are the men who determine whether they will send students to St Patrick's Seminary, or somewhere else.   We all gathered in a central meeting room to show ourselves at our best, and the cataloger, seated in a front row, promptly and conspicuously fell asleep.
One might think that this would reflect poorly upon HIM.
But no. It reflected poorly upon ME.
Soon after the napping incident, I was called on the carpet for poor supervision.
How could I continue to keep this napper on my staff?
And why hadn't I addressed the problem before he napped at a vocations meeting?
At the very least, I should have known to seat him in the back. Or keep him off the mailing list for the vocations meeting.

I spoke with the cataloger again.
He continued to nap.
And when I left the job, he became the new library director's problem.

That was five years ago.
And guess what?
The cataloger finally retired.
That's the good news.
The bad news?
I am now five years older.
I am working at Menlo College in the Writing Center, where occasionally, just occasionally, early in the morning and late in the evening, I have the urge to nap.

I don't, I tell you, I don't.
I get a cup of coffee.
I stretch.
I listen to Aretha Franklin sing "Respect" on my i-phone.
But the urge is there.
I will be sixty in December and there are times I run on empty.
There are times when I have less than that.

And then I have to PRETEND to run on empty.
Remember when Hillary Clinton pretended not to have pneumonia?
I feel her pain and understand the motivation.
I know there may come a time that I have to retire because I have got a negative fuel tank--and hopefully I will be self aware enough to do it--but not yet, Lord, not yet.

The other morning, a colleague a decade younger then me walked into the Writing Center claiming fatigue.
I told him how relieved I was that he was willing to OUT  himself as tired.
I confessed that I felt like taking a nap myself--but that until my colleague came out to me, I was scared to admit that to anyone much less than to  actually go to my car or an empty office at lunchtime and take a nap.
Heck, I could even go home, I said. I live close enough to the college.

"So here's what you do," said my younger, wiser, mentor.
"Take a blanket and pass out in the bushes outside."
"What?"
"Yes, if you pass out in the bushes, the students will think that you are drunk or stoned, and that will make you seem young and edgy rather than old and tired."




Thankfully, there are still times when my work is incredibly energizing.
I try to capture those moments, literally, to show everyone how energized I am.
This is me on a late shift--I was feeling really good, so I interrupted a group brainstorming session and made the students take this photo at
nine p.m. this past Thursday. They are smiling here because they think I am crazy.
Crazy is better than exhausted.

I felt like Father William, the energetic elder in the Lewis Carroll poem written in 1852.
The poem is included in the Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. If you get a chance, read it in full. It is an inspiration..... along with Aretha Franklin. Even if, like me, you have to enlarge the type.

The Teacher as Tesla: I Used to Have a Personal Brand; Now I Need A Metaphor

Long ago teachers could simply describe their teaching style by saying that they taught high school history or early childhood education or English as a second language. But now, teachers are being encouraged to develop metaphors to describe what they do and how they do it. 

I made this discovery when I joined a  local tutoring company that takes a holistic approach to learning--looking, for example, at issues such as whether an individual student learns better visually or by hearing instructions or by doing a "hands-on" project. By extension, the tutors are also encouraged to take a good look at themselves. 

Here's the ice breaker for next weekend's "teach the teacher" workshop:

What is your teaching metaphor?  

Be prepared to share it with others. 

Rest assured, there is no ONE correct answer.

The founders of this company are kind and reassuring. I am not under any particular metaphor pressure. But competitive person that I am, I want a boffo metaphor.  I want a metaphor that will become the gold standard for future classes--even if there is no one correct answer. I want a metaphor that will make the other tutors take a deep breath and go: WHOAH! Now there's a teacher!

In preparation, I decide take suggestions from people who have seen me teach. My husband George has attended many of my public presentations and has watched me rehearse over the years.

"What's my teaching metaphor?" I ask him suddenly in the car, as he drives me to my job at the Menlo College Writing Center.

"You mean style?" he asks.

"Well....... more like a symbol or visual"

"You're a middle aged Jewish woman." 

(See below--guess which one is me!)

"Yes. That is actually what I am. But I need an image, like a gardener who sows the seeds of knowledge, or an octopus, with eight hands, who multitasks. Or even a Tesla--energy efficient, self driving, and found mostly in California!

George drops me off at school and says he'll get back to me with a metaphor by the end of the day.

When I get to the Writing Center, I decide to ask my boss. I know he'll give a great answer because in addition to running the center,  he is an artist who teaches drawing.

I burst in with "Good morning! What is my teaching metaphor?" 

He's ready for me. 

"Hurricane Harvey!"

"You mean I am a natural disaster?"

He pauses thoughtfully. This is a Writing Center. We are precise with words.
"No....just a whirlwind full of energy!"

"Destructive energy?" 
I am more curious than defensive. In the art world, destructive energy is a good thing.

But then, my first student walks in and we have to quit the discussion.

Later at lunch, I ask a group of colleagues.

"What is my teaching metaphor?"

Now, mind you, ALL of the colleagues know what this means and what I am asking. And ALL are ready with answers.

The beloved economics professor in his early seventies groans and says,

"God I hate English majors!"

The English professor and the librarian at the table are more helpful.

"Chameleon," says the librarian.

"You mean I am what Holden Caulfield would call a phony?"

"No," she answers, "I just mean that you are very flexible and adaptable and change your style to meet the audience."

I can live with that.

"Midwife," says the English professor, going with Socrates. "You help students to give birth to great ideas."

I can live with that, too.

Someone at the table, I forget who, calls me a mother hen, which I am less pleased with. But I don't have time to ponder because we are soon into a digression about free range students and free range parenting and helicopter parenting and the conversation is no longer about me. I consider calling my mother, now ninety years old and living in Queens, New York, and asking what her parenting metaphor was. Or better yet how it has evolved over the decades.

 

I get home and tell George about all the metaphors people suggested. 
My brilliant husband thinks about this and says, "Aha!  I have the answer!"

YOU........are........... a weaver!

"What?"

George explains.

"You ask lots of questions, and take all the different answers that you get, and put them together into something that makes sense for you. Hopefully something useful. And then you share what you have discovered with your students. And then you teach them how to weave."

"What if what I create is NOT useful. What if what I weave is just beautiful, like a tapestry or wall hanging? You know...like teaching as an art!"

George pauses.

"Well.....your storytelling is beautiful. I love your stories. You weave them together from different ideas into something beautiful."

Ladies and gentleman--we have a metaphor!
And...a 25 year marriage!