Cessation

My annual em dash

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

Jolting from teaching to summer break gives me whiplash. It happens every summer. One day I am running back and forth from the copier, bouncing around my classroom helping students, sneaking off to use the restroom, and stuffing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my face during lunch, to sipping a cup of tea watching birds flit around the backyard feeders, languidly reading books, and napping. I first notice the lull. I do not realize how much noise fills my days until I am surrounded by silence. Schooldays can be chaotic, and when meetings fill every planning period and lunch, rushing, rushing, rushing only to sit is exhausting. Summertime is tranquil. My only obligations are eating and sleeping; the only sounds I hear are distant lawnmowers, mourning doves cooing, and Blue Jays squawking. The only rush I feel is in the last stretch of a good novel. I return to my natural bodily rhythms. I get gloriously bored.

My DNA still propels me to busy myself during summer’s first weeks. After cleaning the house, pulling the neglected weeds, and completing home improvement projects, my internal springs, stress-cranked tight all year, relax. I slow down. The frenzy ceases.

I think of the last quarter page of The Great Gatsby.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic fu­ture that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—”

Nick Carraway watches Jay Gatsby intensely pursue Daisy (or his idealized past relationship), and now, in the novel’s last moments, his relentless frenzy ceases. There is much held in that final em dash: weight, disillusionment, poignancy. Gatsby is running at breakneck speed for eight chapters and it is finally over. Gatsby is dead, lying on a “laden mattress” floating in the swimming pool “with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves.” It is a striking image that halts the novel.

But Fitzgerald’s em dash does not sit at George Wilson and Gatsby’s crime scene. It arrives two years later as Carraway reflects on his whirlwind time in Gatsby’s romantic fantasy. Despite claiming unbiased impartiality, Carraway blindly idolizes Gatsby, and has had two years away from the wild parties and chaotic excursions to reflect on his experiences. His sobering assessment is that Gatsby chases a nostalgic phantom, an “orgastic future” that lives forever in the past, never in his future.

Forgive my melodramatic comparison. My schooldays frenzy cannot compare to Gatsby’s lavish parties and hollow wealth. My days recede because teaching requires endurance; the system continuously requires you to “run faster, stretch out [your] arms farther” until. . . . what? You make it to summer? Burn out? Retire? No one wants to find themselves living “one fine morning” before arriving at a foreboding em dash.

Summertime gives me a much-needed pause, especially now, after teaching for a long time, and recently having my most challenging school years. Summers allow ample time to think about my teaching life during the before times: before the pandemic; before the internet; before phones and Chromebooks; before textbooks and standardization. My sentimental nostalgia lures me to pine for the good ol’ days. Alfie Kohn warns that “claims about how life used to be better are mostly false.” Adrienne Rich calls nostalgia “amnesia turned around.” She warns us against using sentimentality to create a “false history” by misremembering the past. Like Gatsby, I sometimes wonder if I, too, chase a phantom, a classroom future that will be better if only. If only my students would focus more; If only they were not addicted to their phones; If only my students were held accountable. If only I did not need to teach out of this textbook. Positive psychology expert Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar, calls this conditional happiness or the arrival fallacy. We hinge our well-being on external conditions, by thinking, I'll be happy when I achieve X. Doing this places our joy in the future while invalidating our current circumstances. Gatsby suffers from this, believing if he can amass enough wealth and rekindle his relationship with Daisy, his life will be perfect. I wonder if some of my recent teaching unhappiness is from frustratingly waiting for something that will never come. Despite current hysteria, technology and phones in classrooms are not disappearing. Despite cries for more social-emotional support, students continue to be dysregulated. Teachers continue to be underpaid and overworked. It is far easier to sell the decline of civilization than offering realistic steps to navigate its challenges. I concede to writing about recalcitrant students, authoritarian standardization, and the diminishing quality of children’s literature. If only they paid me for my worth and allowed me to teach the way I want using quality materials and unlimited financial resources, then teaching would improve. Arthur C. Brooks, author of The Meaning of Your Life: Finding Purpose in an Age of Emptiness, says,

“The divine force within you is to live up to your own moral aspirations and build your life in such a way that the progress you make for being a better person, for crafting better things, to lifting other people up, that’s what gives inherent satisfaction.”

Brooks advises us to find satisfaction in living our lives now, right up to our em dash. Gatsby believes in the green light; keeps looking backward while racing toward it. He cannot stop. In life, there is no race; no one is looking to cross the finish line first. It is tempting to look behind us, especially when we know we should not (Orpheus is in all of us). And it is easy to get lost in the past, forever watching the reel tape of our past selves; the greatest hits of our lives. We tug-of-war, but keep moving onward.

Summertime is a cessation. The pace, stress, and fatigue stop. I cease being a cog. My agency returns. Year after year of resisting institutional compliance is wearisome. Summertime is my em dash; a chance to stop, breathe, and assess. What is my green light? What am I racing toward?

Carraway never finishes his sentence, choosing a paradoxical metaphor instead.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

We each push toward our own green lights. More learned scholars (and most high school English teachers) compare F. Scott Fitzgerald’s green light to the illusory hope of unrealistic dreams, unattainable desire, and the unrealized American Dream. I feel the beginning of that sentence, so we beat on, boats against the current. For me, teaching is an act of undying hope beyond reason. My boat is always against the current. Even in the best of conditions, how ridiculous is it for me to expect that I can adequately teach a room of thirty different students, and that each of those students will make at least one year’s academic growth? And yet, I do. Every fall, I believe I can, and every summer, I question whether I did. I keep reaching and striving, but ultimately, I am as Fitzgerald ends, borne back ceaselessly into the past. Time continues receding. Gatsby’s future is an illusion; he is unhealthily disconnected to his past. Perhaps it is quintessentially American of me to strive for things outside of my reach, to run faster, stretch out [my] arms farther.¹ Maybe it is human of me to sometimes get stuck in nostalgia. Caraway feels the push-pull throughout The Great Gatsby. I feel it too. Every year I push myself to be a better teacher, and every year, teaching humbles me. It is a relentless tide. I persist because of what is after my em dash: a summer of cessation. Summer gives me eighty days to recover, reflect, and restart. My story does not end.

There is one more thing that separates me from Gatsby. I do not believe that my future is illusionary. I doubt whether I will live to see systemic changes improving public education for teachers and students. I do believe that every school year holds a realistic promise for something meaningful. And this is not sentimental nostalgia. I keep coming back because I know, despite how outrageously naïve, that I make a positive difference in the lives of my students. After decades of teaching, I let go of the illusion that all of my students will be engaged one hundred percent everyday, and will all score high on standardized tests. I let go of the illusory perfect lesson plan and having ample resources and planning time. I let go of the illusion that teachers are going to solve all of society’s ills. Instead, I set my boat against the current and continue to beat on because I know that a skilled teacher can make the difference between a non-reader and an avid reader; a loving teacher who creates a safe and secure learning environment can change the trajectory of a child’s life. I realize that teaching requires hard work, but it also requires hope. Not Gatsby’s destructive, delusional hope, but real hope that my work for students is not only helpful, but necessary. As Coach Lasso says, “I think it's the lack of hope that comes and gets you. See, I believe in hope. I believe in belief.” I do not romanticize being a teacher. I am not a hero. Students do not need heroes; they need dedicated and caring humans working to help them be better version of themselves. Teaching and bettering students, and knowing you are making a difference, is not a phantom; it is my light.

It can be difficult to see one’s light during the school year. The unceasing pace forces teachers and student to grind it out to no end. Without a light, harmful means are justified over unrealistic and unnecessary ends, allowing the system to make us forever run faster, always stretching out our arms farther and farther. Gatsby does not survive his em dash. I do. I get time to sit and be bored and read books and drink tea and watch birds and forget what day it is and think through my writing. Gatsby never slows down. I do. Summer is a reminder for how I want to teach every year and live my em dash. My happiness (and my students’) does not depend on things outside of my control. I will only be happy when I achieve [BLANK]. Teaching makes me happy. I create classrooms that center humanity. Gatsby believes in his green light, but cannot stop to see it. Each summer, I get the chance to cease, center, and cast myself toward my light and my teaching future. Because what comes after is important. The journey is the point. My annual em dash reminds me of who I am, and what I am teaching for.

Have a great week!

— Adrian

For me success is not about the wins and losses; it’s about helping these young fellows be the best versions of themselves on and off the field.

Ted Lasso, S01E03

Resources

The Truth About Teachers’ Summers by Elizabeth Heubeck | Education Week

• As most of y’all are teachers or have some connection to public education, nothing in this Education Week article is surprising. Although a few years old, I find the reminders helpful. “To imply that teachers have off all summer dismisses their unseen work to enhance their craft and, ultimately, provide students with high-quality instruction.” — Heather Peske, president of the National Council on Teacher Quality

How to make a (realistic) plan for summer that will leave you feeling rejuvenated

• In this episode from Angela Watson’s podcast Truth For Teachers, she suggests spending 30 minutes at the beginning of summer to map out what you want to accomplish and what would make you feel refreshed. I found the exercise helpful.

5 Tips for a Successful Return After Taking a Pause in Your Career

• While this advice is written for those returning to work after being away for a considerable amount of time (e.g.: stay-at-home parents), I find the tips beneficial.

• I quoted Arthur C. Brooks above, from this interview with Simon Sinek on the A Bit of Optimism podcast. Sinek and Brooks discuss why many feel unhappy, an equation for joy, and why following one’s gut is essential. Brooks also shares how to treat life like a pilgrimage, why AI may strip away the struggle that makes us wise, and why the process - not the outcome - is where happiness lives.

• This video explores the arrival fallacy in more detail. I actually use their gratitude practice (at timestamp 3:53) in my daily journaling practice. I find that focusing on a person, a pleasure, and a promise helps me stay mindful in my gratitude.

• If you are pressed for time, just watch Chapter 1: The Paradox of Chasing Happiness. Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar outlines how anti-fragility (a concept first coined by Nassim Taleb in his book, Antifragile — Book 3 of the Incerto series) and post-traumatic growth reframe hardship as opportunity. He also discusses how happiness is found through connection, purpose, and clarity. Highlights from this video are Dr. Ben-Shahar discussing anti-fragility, time off and well-being, and Chapter 2: The 5 Dimensions of Well-Being.

@bored_teachersIf teachers’ summer break bothers you so much, go ask your boss for 2 months off with no pay and see how relaxing it feels 🤣 Featuring @Angry Gym Teacher

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1. This is probably why I innovated my classroom with edtech and one-to-one devices.