“August 12:” the date had been circled in raspberry-coloured marker on the calendar in the “Quiet-Time Corner” for over two weeks, the message printed neatly in bold letters: “Lisa’s Last Day.” The idea behind noting this reminder was to better prepare my group of 3 to 5 year old students, whose full-time preschool teacher I had been since April, for my imminent departure. We counted down the days as we did other noteworthy events: birthdays, field trips, and vacations, but despite our collective enthusiasm and positive spin, each thick, black “X” that crossed another day off the calendar did little to prepare me.
While my children easily understood that like many of their friends who were leaving daycare to start kindergarten I too was going back to “big school,” four months with preschoolers had shaken my confidence. It is true, I can kiss a booboo better, I remember all the words to the Alphabet song, and I have painstakingly developed the patience of a saint, but for the first time in my fledgling career, I am scared – of high school.
While I am not the only person bidding a bittersweet farewell to summer loves, summer jobs, and summer liberties and returning to full-time studies this September, I am one of a cohort of approximately ninety Faculty of Education undergrads coming back this semester not only as students, but high school teachers as well.
Starting on August 25th, and spanning sixteen weeks (Monday through Thursday, 8:30am-3:30pm), I will be on my third field experience (or “stage”), working alongside a “cooperating teacher” (CT), being evaluated and advised by a “McGill supervisor,” and grading assignments and developing lesson plans at the café around the corner, returning for a full day of classes and professional seminars at McGill every Friday. On August 12th, I still do not know where I will be working.
Waiting for news of a placement from the Office of Student Teaching, the department in charge of placing and supervising student teachers, invokes as much anticipation and apprehension as a blind date. A blind date orchestrated by a great-aunt’s co-worker. There is the giddy hope that it will be a great experience, the phone-calls to best friends about what to wear to make the best impression, and of course a deep, resounding dread that this is all a big mistake and maybe it is a better idea to move back home with Mom and Dad and never work, or date, ever again. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were right – the waiting is the hardest part.
The responsibility and level of professionalism required speak to the gravity of where a student-teacher is placed, who will be supervising her, and with whom she will be working. According to the Office of Student Teaching, the goals of this third professional experience involve learning to manage time and develop excellent planning skills, polishing a professional portfolio and effective teaching practices, and eventually taking on 60-75% of the CT’s workload – planning, teaching, grading, and supervising to name just a few of the responsibilities. Considering the first two field experiences focused primarily on learning to take attendance and teaching a few lessons, the pressure is on during this third teaching trial.
What’s worse than the anticipation is the humbling doubt that creeps into the mind in the days approaching the start day – “What if I’m just no good?” I am under the impression that the third and fourth field experiences can either make me or break me – urban legends circulate in the Education library of student teachers who were “fired” from their stage for being too “boring” - “Am I boring?!” My students’ intellectual, moral, and personal growth and development are in my hands – “What do I know about anything?!”
Over the course of my studies, and now in my last year of schooling before I enter the workforce, I have internalized the message that I heard back in my first year, during my first stage, and subsequently throughout my education: “Teaching is a huge undertaking… Not just anybody can become a teacher.” At this point, I am still not sure if I am that somebody that can.
On August 12, eyes locked in a glaring stare-down with the raspberry words on the calendar, I can only hope that I will learn how to deal with whatever my professional fate has in store for me. My contemplation is broken by the sudden, unyielding grip of tiny, four-year old arms around my hips. One of my young charges squeezes tight and declares in earnest “I want to go to big school with Lisa.” In that moment, I have the feeling I will be just fine.
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