The Prodigal Returns

I just returned from a three day International Baccalaureate teacher conference in Houston. It was a jumble of all sorts of positive reinforcements - hanging out and acting ridiculously silly with good friends and sitting among brilliant academics, sipping coffee and saying nonsense phrases that sound important, like "transatlantic metonymous paradox." I was at Rice.

As usual, I left that place feeling all starry-eyed and inspired about IB but this time with caveats: What time is worth giving to teach 10 of 150 students v. what do I owe them since they are among the few who actually care? When will I find the time to implement the necessary changes I hope to see - as in reading, selecting, and preparing a new curriculum for the course - that will in the long run make my job easier, but that will in the short term increase my work load at a time when I am stretched so thin? What would make me more credible and therefore respected as an educator? Age? A second degree? A change in locality? Etc. and so on.

I savor going to these conferences because I have the opportunity to imagine what the ideal classroom looks like. I enjoy hobnobbing with people from all over the nation and beyond, in part because I find them all so familiar, but also because I romanticize their situations. I don't have to see them in the trenches of reality; at conferences we are all academics, inspirations, of value. For three short days we get to experience those platitudes that people are so willing to dole out to teachers: that we are needed, that our job makes a difference, that we are worthy of all the lovely things in the world (such as hot breakfast, a fluffy, down duvet, and genuine conversation).

But I'm back, now, counting down the days until my next escape. The baby was up all night. The neighbor dog barked in between baby shrieks. The kitchen needs a good scrubbing, and research papers are due on Tuesday.