After finishing my 16th year of teaching, you'd think there wouldn’t be many more surprises left at the end of the year. But this one wrapped up with a few genuine thank-you notes left in my mailbox, one of which stood out. A student shared that she had read my blog at the beginning of the school year and wished my last entry hadn’t been from 2018. Since I hate letting students down, even though it happens more than I’d like to admit, I figured it was time to dust off the old blog, thanks to a little nudge from Ava. It wasn’t a demand, just some thoughtful encouragement and topic suggestions. But I had to wait for the right idea to come to me.
As life moves along, inspiration can come from the joyful moments or the heavy ones. I happened to sit down to write this post on what would have been my mom’s birthday. Admittedly, it’s still not an easy day even after 10 years without her. I can’t help but look back at what was and wonder what could have been. Searching for something uplifting to focus on, my mind drifted to her 30-plus years in the classroom.
My mom became a special education teacher right around the time special education was being formalized. She was part of the foundational changes in how we serve students with different abilities. Because of her, my sister and I grew up in schools. On off days, or when our schedules didn’t line up, we went to work with her. In the summers, we helped out around the school. When we turned 18, we stepped in and ran classrooms. I spent one summer with physically disabled students, one with behavioral challenges, and one in a severe and profound classroom. Those experiences didn’t make me a better high school history teacher, but they made me appreciate the magic of my mom’s classroom.
Since COVID, I’ve felt this creeping challenge. It’s harder to connect with a class right away. When you start as a young teacher, the urgency is to put years between you and the students to assert some distance. That part wasn’t too difficult for me. I never looked like a high schooler and didn’t get mistaken for one. I worked hard to shed the “newbie” label and earn the respect that comes with experience. What I didn’t value enough back then was how easy connection came when you were young and hungry and everywhere. When you put in the time, students opened up fast and freely.
Now, 17 years into the same school, forging that bond at the start of the year feels harder. And when something that once came naturally becomes a struggle, it’s hard not to feel like you’re falling short. But no, this isn’t a sob story about disconnect or defeat. I still find a way to end the year in a good place with students. There is still laughter in the hallways, honest conversations, and notes that catch me off guard. But I do wonder why it feels so much harder to reach that point now.
When I think about the magic of my mom’s classroom, I remember students with Down Syndrome who loved school. They loved visitors, schoolwork, and Popcorn and Movie Fridays. The energy in that room was joyfully honest. If someone was upset, you knew. If someone was excited, you felt it too. It was the most real version of a “least restrictive environment” I’ve ever seen. It was something I heard about in college lectures and read in textbooks, but rarely witnessed in action. We went to graduation parties. We got Christmas cards for years. My mom was a local celebrity hug to any student, sibling, or parent who crossed her path. These weren’t “alums” like high school teachers talk about. They were her kids, and it felt like family.
That memory got me thinking. Not just about her, but about my own favorite classrooms. The ones where I felt connected. The teachers who shaped me: Mr. Dominiak, Ms. Laughran, Mr. Peters, Dr. Gaddis. And then, as he often does, my friend and coworker Wejman brought up something that stuck. He said the classroom we sat in growing up was the same classroom we taught in when we started. Overhead projectors, TVs on carts, scantrons. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but it was stable and familiar.
Now, everything is different. The classroom might look the same on the surface, but it feels foreign. Phones, Chromebooks, and iPads have created walls between teachers and students. Attention spans are shorter. Engagement is a constant battle. I used to be able to sit on a desk and tell a story with every eye on me. Now, I fight for 15 seconds of undivided attention. I used to sit down with students to wrestle with writing and ideas. Now, many would rather toss it into ChatGPT and move on. Especially the more introverted students. There’s no need for vulnerability when a tool can mask uncertainty.
That one-on-one time mattered. It was a small opening where trust and growth happened. Now, it can feel like students are only asking what they need to know to get the points, not what they can learn from the experience. I don’t say that to be negative. It’s just the world we’re in. The biggest shift I feel is a result of students living in a world of phones, social media, short-form content, and AI tools. That shift has made connection, authenticity, and engagement harder to come by. Students want to earn points and get through it.
But the good news is that students are still open to change. This was the first year we required phones to be turned in during class. I encouraged moments without screens. I taught students how to use AI for learning and brainstorming instead of shortcuts. And it worked. There is still a path forward. But it is going to take intention and patience to find it.
I don’t know exactly what the next few years hold. The classroom is evolving quickly, and I am trying to grow with it. But I do wonder what happens if the space ever stops being about connection, storytelling, and shared experience. If that disappears, then I’m not sure there is a point in hanging around.
For now, though, I’m still here. Even when it’s harder than it used to be, even when the spark takes longer to catch, it’s still worth trying to light.
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