I know a lot of my fellow interns (myself included) still feel like frauds, interlopers in the profession, but the time to not feel like "real teachers" is drawing to a close. As we shadow in our new buildings and apply for our licenses, we must be willing to take up the mantel and really own who we are as professionals who have worked hard to learn even the small amount we feel we know.
My students are currently writing narratives imitating the style and creativity of Sandra Cisneros's "My Name," in "The House on Mango Street." They deconstructed it, read an echo, and then began thinking on how to write their own. In an attempt to follow what many of our texts said to do in our "Theory and Practice in Composition" class, I have imitated it for my own life, both for the name "Claire" and the name "Mrs. Watkins." Today I will share my take on really owning both my name and the responsibility that comes with that title.
"My Name"
In society my
name means “taken,” but in practice it means “teacher.” I claim the Mrs. when I
said I do, but I was always just Miss Claire until there were struggling
learners calling and reinforcing it. It means the hope of clarity, of answers,
of questions evaporating as the name whines out across the humid room. It is
the sound of adulthood; checks being written and companies to call,
appointments to be made and people to be responsible for.
It means tired.
When embraced, it is papers spilling out of heavy bags and stickers finding
themselves being washed onto sweaters. It comes from a long line of teachers
before me, especially my father-in-law. Mr. Watkins, or simply Coach. It means
a legacy of caring for young people while pushing them harder than I always
understood to a greatness that they didn’t often believe they had. I did not
inherit any of his athletic ability, but I aspire to glean his impact on teens.
At times it gets
butchered, sometimes out of neglect, sometimes out of love. Miss. Mrs. W.
Watts. Teacher. Teeeeeacher. Please learn my name Aaron. I don’t learn any of
my teachers’ names. Okay fine. “This is my favorite teacher, Mrs. Watkins.”
That one hit me hard. To be given that title is to be given the honor of a memory
of a successful adult, looking back on their 8th grade year with
(hopefully) fondness of “that year we had a student teacher who had no clue how
to handle the class with 4 girls and 13 boys immediately after lunch.”
I fell in love
with this name as a romanticized version of who I was now that I was part of a
Watkins team, but the name became more and more mine as I grew in confidence
and pride as an educator, someone who deserved respect, someone still growing,
but a mere Miss Claire no more.
