I am one of those people who, after
32 years of birthdays, still likes getting older. Well, I suppose I should
clarify that: I love having a birthday.
When I was about to turn 24, my
first son was born. In fact, it was the day before my own birthday when he came
into this world. In part because I was happy to be a dad, and in part because
he almost didn't stay in the world for long, I enveloped Peter's birthday into
my own. The one day's difference didn't bother me (even though, as a child, I
secretly hated my younger brother for having a birthday in March), and I have
always deeply enjoyed celebrating my son's birthday with my own.
Part of my love of a birthday is
from growing up. In a family of four kids, there were plenty of ways in which I
could get attention from my parents, but I was always content to just kind
of...be there. I didn't do a lot of sports, extra-curricular activities, or
trouble. I was pretty content to cruise, rarely doing much outside my comfort
zone. As a result, birthdays became times when I had greater attention from
most everyone, and it happened because I managed to keep breathing since the
last time the calendar read 26 April.
Feeling that appreciation was
something that I was a little disappointed in when I finally became an adult. The
college I attended had Finals Week--invariably--whenever my birthday came
around. One year I remember specifically as being a day with a very large final
in the morning, then a job interview to work at a place I didn't like in the
afternoon.
Adulthood, in other words, prevented
me from having the kinds of birthdays I wanted. You know, one where, since it's
Your Special Day you get to go where you want, sleep in, eat at your favorite
restaurant, watch a movie, and then be showered with presents in the evening?
That's what I thought I would get once I finally pulled free of the
expectations of school and moved on into my adult life.
But I didn't grow out of school. I
became a teacher--and, what's more, a high school teacher--so I didn't have the
option of a free birthday. (Substitutes, by the way, require more effort and
planning than going to school. So skipping out on classes actually leads to
more stress on my part.)
That was okay. I didn't have to have
my childhood repeated throughout my working years. I could live with that.
But then I started preparing myself
for having to teach the World Wars, two of the most gruesome and heartbreaking
events of the modern world. And, because of how we structured the school year,
March became World War I and April, World War II.
As a teacher, I try to teach
passionately and thoroughly. Skimming over things--especially important
things--frustrates me. Because of this, I took additional college classes on
the World Wars in order to teach them better. I have copious notes--which still
amounts to, essentially, a superficial knowledge of these largest of
conflicts--that I review annually as I prepare myself for the lessons.
The thing is, every year, right on or just before my birthday, is when I have to
teach about the Holocaust.
It is a horrible experience. Every
year.
And not because of the class or
behavior issues. It's not because I forget the content (I review enough to
remember what I want to say, though, for the most part, I block out what I
know). It's because, of all the lessons I get to teach, this is the one that I
want to be the most powerful. It's the one I want to do best. It's the one I
want to sear into their minds (despite the cliché that idea is).
I cannot make students remember
anything. Tests and projects are blunt instruments at best. But I can make many
students feel something.
Unfortunately, I can only do that if I
feel it, too.
So every year--this time, it's
actually on Shakespeare's birthday--I have to dust off the PowerPoint, find the
music, watch the videos, and prepare myself for the emotional trip.
It leaves me exhausted. And while I
try to put on a brave face for all the students, I end up crying. My own
inadequacies become more and more apparent as I struggle to express some of
what I think, and feel, and know. I worry that I go too far; I worry that I
don't go far enough. I fear that there will be kids who can't handle it and
have to walk away (as some did this year). I fear there will be kids who think
it's a waste of time because they've "heard it all before"--as if
their 16 years' experience is enough to encompass something as unfathomable as
the Holocaust.
And so the rest of the day is glum,
even though spring sunshine often breaks through and the joy of celebrating my
birthday with my son's is just around the corner.
It's one of the few times that I can
say that I know I've done my job well if I hated being at the work I love.
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