Unshackled

When I started teaching in 2010 there were two of me – professional Kara and personal Kara. My biggest fear back then was that the line between them would break in front of my students, that they would catch a glimpse of the flawed, vulnerable, not-so-teacherly Kara that existed after 4:00 PM. They would not, could not, see that I was guilty of so many things I encouraged them to avoid – self-doubt, procrastination, gossip, a curse word here and there.

I wanted them to take me seriously and I thought the only way to do that was to keep professional Kara in the classroom and personal Kara at home. Never shall the two meet.

Five years later, I’ve learned that lines like that don’t break, but fizzle. A slow, hardly noticeable evaporation until one day – poof! – they’re gone. One minute you’re standing in front of your students explaining how Kate Chopin’s upbringing influenced her short stories, nervously calling on hands because, shit, what if you don’t know the answer? The next you’re talking about how to create effective imagery when you see the fear in their eyes. “It’s okay,” you say. “As a writer, I struggle with being descriptive too. It’s really hard for me.”

That’s when you realize that the mask has been gone for a while.

The face they see when I’m running behind on grading because I spent the night watching “Frozen” with my two-year-old instead of reading papers is mine, exposed and authentic. So is the face they see at the grocery store when I’m buying beer and in the classroom when they ask a question I don’t know the answer to. It’s the personal face that I tried hiding years ago – the one that, it turns out, they like more.

Because it’s fallible like them.

It’s human like them.

Teachers are held to exceedingly high standards and we’re expected to meet them. As professionals who influence the lives of children daily, we have a responsibility to deliver quality instruction to and set a good example for the students we teach.

We do not have a responsibility to be perfect.

When I allow myself to be vulnerable in front of my students it visibly eases their fear of failure. Not surprisingly, it eases mine too, which makes for one hell of a productive classroom. I’m a better teacher when I’m a person first and an educator second because real learning, the kind that kids carry with them beyond high school, can’t take place any other way.

There’s only one me now, and everyday when I see my students open up and take risks, I’m so relieved that line is gone.