It’s 6:47 in the morning on the F train. 
At first I write something down in a note on my phone, 
that I thought was earnest in the moment, but
on a second read-through 
made me laugh in its self parody. 
Because teachers writing about teaching is like 
walking a tightrope between two lion pits — 
if you cross the chasm to either extreme of the spectrum you’re probably fucked, 
and if you stay on the line long enough, you’re probably fucked too. 
You’re best never hopping on the tightrope in the first place, 
especially if it’s 6:47 in the morning and you’re on the F train. 

The way I see it,
teachers talking about teaching often fall into one of two buckets:

1.
When teachers forget how to be students
they think themselves Socrates
and ask hypotheticals that can’t be answered like:

‘How does one feed fifty minds 
when fifty throats hold back fifty rocks 
lodged in fifty windpipes 
that squeak in fifty tones
a dissonant song that cries 
for fifty generations of abuse,
a song that carried fifty pairs of feet
across the river Jordan 
and vibrated along the length of 
fifty lips that kissed the saccharine
taste of honeyed statutes
that couldn’t wash away 
the salt from their skin,
the salt of the desert that held them
prisoner,
a taste that never goes away
no matter how much molasses 
collects on the tongue
like thick, broken promises?’

Or:

‘How does one feed a brain that’s already 
full on disillusion
and has already learned to taste honey as vinegar and salt as truth?’

Because it’s easier to blame a system than
take your fraction of that blame on the chin.

2.
But sometimes teachers remember how to be students
and they say pretty, perfect things like:

The truth is you don’t. 
You listen. 
You listen to their words,
Words that carry joy,
Words that carry sorrow,
Words that carry strength,
Words that carry anger,
Words that carry wisdom,
Words that carry laughter. 
And you listen in a way that says
I hear you,
I may never fully understand you,
I may never know your experience,
But I hear you,
And if you keep trying, I’ll keep trying too.

But those are perfect, pretty words
like the kind you put in a cover letter
or in a poem,
no closer to reality than the
hypotheticals of Mr./Mrs. Socrates

The truth is,
most days I’m not sure which kind of teacher I am. 
Maybe neither; 
maybe a bit of both. 

The best I can do is
Show up to work on time,
leave an open ear to my students,
keep my desk neat and symmetrical,
avoid speaking in Hallmark card aphorisms,  
settle into my place on the tightrope
between the two lion pits
and hope my best is enough. 

Because its 6:47am on the F train
and this isn’t the time or place 
for teachers to talk about teaching.