Now that I got the big reveal out in the open, I want to write something about what it's really like to be non-renewed as a teacher.
In case you missed it, the power that is in my school decided that I wasn't a good fit, and thus I won't be back for the next school year. However, I will teach the remainder of this year.
I feel like someone deceased who, by a glitch in the system, gets to posthumously hang around for a couple of months to hear all the things said about him. It's very eerie. It's also led to my having to absorb a good deal of pity, which I'm entirely unused to tolerating, and which I find somewhat ironic.
Why?
Because this will probably be the neatest working situation I'll ever be in! I mean, think about it, I get to remain in my position despite knowing I've been deemed expendable! For three grand months! I do hope the possibilities are leaping into your mind as they did mine.
If they aren't, allow me to elaborate...
Option 1
Teach science for the rest of the year. For fun. For disorder. For science.
Option 2
Have my students write an argumentative essay on the topic of my employment. The prompt would look something like this, "Was Mr. Londberg a good teacher in your opinion? If yes, use evidence to support having him back next year. If no, use evidence to argue his non-renewal was viable."
Then, after the students have written their essays, tally up the arguments. How many students want me back? How many don't? Create an Excel spreadsheet of the data. Good teachers love data. (Remember, my non-renewal eliminates my chance of being a good teacher this year, so I'll be sure to fudge the data in my favor–because no good teacher would ever do that.)
Option 3
Wear a scarlet "N" on the lapel of the suit that I never, ever wear to work. Wait, that's nonsensical. I'll have to pin the scarlet letter to the tattered T-shirts I'm going to start wearing to school.
Option 4
Considering I've taken one sick day, perhaps a three-day weekend, every weekend, for the rest of the year is in order.
Option 5
Write a book with the sudden surplus of free time.
Option 6
Instead of making numerous phone calls home to parents each night, start asking to speak with my students. When they get on the phone, think of some elaborate prank-call set that will really get them riled up. The next day at school, hint at a theme from the prank call so that the student's world is suddenly turned upside-down with the dawning realization that you, the teacher, are the true prank-call artiste.
Option 7
Implement protocols commonly used in the annals of my mind. Does that even make sense? It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm implementing protocols I should remain in at least tolerable standing.
Option 8
Apply to work at Teach for America. (Good god, if you're not laughing at that then you never will.)
Option 9
Start singing random songs at random times to random students. Really commit to it, too. Like, you know, belt that Beattles' jam. And some Sade. And some conceived-on-the-fly lyrics sung in a drawling country-music voice (because there's no genre like country to easily make up crappy lyrics that could pass as legitimate).
I actually already do this one. Every day. Just today I sang Wrecking Ball to my eighth graders as they were typing up essays. They started getting frustrated because I "can't sing at all," whatever that means.
In case you missed it, the power that is in my school decided that I wasn't a good fit, and thus I won't be back for the next school year. However, I will teach the remainder of this year.
I feel like someone deceased who, by a glitch in the system, gets to posthumously hang around for a couple of months to hear all the things said about him. It's very eerie. It's also led to my having to absorb a good deal of pity, which I'm entirely unused to tolerating, and which I find somewhat ironic.
Why?
Because this will probably be the neatest working situation I'll ever be in! I mean, think about it, I get to remain in my position despite knowing I've been deemed expendable! For three grand months! I do hope the possibilities are leaping into your mind as they did mine.
If they aren't, allow me to elaborate...
Option 1
Teach science for the rest of the year. For fun. For disorder. For science.
Option 2
Have my students write an argumentative essay on the topic of my employment. The prompt would look something like this, "Was Mr. Londberg a good teacher in your opinion? If yes, use evidence to support having him back next year. If no, use evidence to argue his non-renewal was viable."
Then, after the students have written their essays, tally up the arguments. How many students want me back? How many don't? Create an Excel spreadsheet of the data. Good teachers love data. (Remember, my non-renewal eliminates my chance of being a good teacher this year, so I'll be sure to fudge the data in my favor–because no good teacher would ever do that.)
Option 3
Wear a scarlet "N" on the lapel of the suit that I never, ever wear to work. Wait, that's nonsensical. I'll have to pin the scarlet letter to the tattered T-shirts I'm going to start wearing to school.
Option 4
Considering I've taken one sick day, perhaps a three-day weekend, every weekend, for the rest of the year is in order.
Option 5
Write a book with the sudden surplus of free time.
Option 6
Instead of making numerous phone calls home to parents each night, start asking to speak with my students. When they get on the phone, think of some elaborate prank-call set that will really get them riled up. The next day at school, hint at a theme from the prank call so that the student's world is suddenly turned upside-down with the dawning realization that you, the teacher, are the true prank-call artiste.
Option 7
Implement protocols commonly used in the annals of my mind. Does that even make sense? It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm implementing protocols I should remain in at least tolerable standing.
Option 8
Apply to work at Teach for America. (Good god, if you're not laughing at that then you never will.)
Option 9
Start singing random songs at random times to random students. Really commit to it, too. Like, you know, belt that Beattles' jam. And some Sade. And some conceived-on-the-fly lyrics sung in a drawling country-music voice (because there's no genre like country to easily make up crappy lyrics that could pass as legitimate).
I actually already do this one. Every day. Just today I sang Wrecking Ball to my eighth graders as they were typing up essays. They started getting frustrated because I "can't sing at all," whatever that means.
Option 10
Play movies in class. Every day. From now until June.
But I'm talking good movies. Like The English Patient. And The Matrix. And Cloud Atlas. Movies that they'll learn something from, not just ones that they'll tune out, like boring documentaries and other "educational films."
And bring popcorn. But don't share any of it with students. Eat it in front of them. And laugh to the point of tears.
Wait that's too harsh. Give everyone a kernel and scarf the rest as they watch.
Option 11
Don't do any of options 1-10. Instead, continue working diligently to ensure maximal student growth in the critical standard areas designated by some committee of old fuckers who aptly (boringly) named their creation the Common Core State Standards. Follow the curriculum given to you, which is mundane as oatmeal and doesn't begin to apply to a group of underprivileged, struggling urban students. Yeah, keep on teaching that stuff.
Option 12
Actually read some good shit, er, works over the last three months of school. Like some short stories. Written by bad asses. Like Ken Liu, a bad ass who writes some stuff for DailyScienceFiction.com, the site that refuses to take just one of my mediocre science fiction stories.
Option 13
Engage in as many staring contests as possible. Post your record at the front of the room on the whiteboard. Tell students that final quarter grades will be based solely on their record in staring contests over the next three months. Literally spend each hour-long class observing and taking part in heated battles of grit and tear-duct-pain tolerance.
...
As I hope you can see by now, the options are very nearly endless. And glorious.
So please, if you see me or write me in the future, withhold pity. I'm going to be just fine, as this list can attest.
Play movies in class. Every day. From now until June.
But I'm talking good movies. Like The English Patient. And The Matrix. And Cloud Atlas. Movies that they'll learn something from, not just ones that they'll tune out, like boring documentaries and other "educational films."
And bring popcorn. But don't share any of it with students. Eat it in front of them. And laugh to the point of tears.
Wait that's too harsh. Give everyone a kernel and scarf the rest as they watch.
Option 11
Don't do any of options 1-10. Instead, continue working diligently to ensure maximal student growth in the critical standard areas designated by some committee of old fuckers who aptly (boringly) named their creation the Common Core State Standards. Follow the curriculum given to you, which is mundane as oatmeal and doesn't begin to apply to a group of underprivileged, struggling urban students. Yeah, keep on teaching that stuff.
Option 12
Actually read some good shit, er, works over the last three months of school. Like some short stories. Written by bad asses. Like Ken Liu, a bad ass who writes some stuff for DailyScienceFiction.com, the site that refuses to take just one of my mediocre science fiction stories.
Option 13
Engage in as many staring contests as possible. Post your record at the front of the room on the whiteboard. Tell students that final quarter grades will be based solely on their record in staring contests over the next three months. Literally spend each hour-long class observing and taking part in heated battles of grit and tear-duct-pain tolerance.
...
As I hope you can see by now, the options are very nearly endless. And glorious.
So please, if you see me or write me in the future, withhold pity. I'm going to be just fine, as this list can attest.