Many people experience a defining moment that shapes what they will become. While I was teaching at an urban alternative high school, that moment came for me when a student screamed a string of expletives in my face.
Standing there, armed with my master’s degree and ten years of classroom experience, it struck me that I was no longer teaching, honing the craft I loved and was dedicated to. At this juncture, I literally did not know who I was, not only in terms of my vocation but also in terms of my overall identity—especially my identity as a Christian. My Christian upbringing, devotion to Christ and His teaching, and my K–12 education in Catholic schools provided a background that prepared me to be intentional in the spiritual formation of my students, even in a public school setting. Knowing that the spirit of Jesus Christ resides in each one of my students is the position from which I had always approached teaching. In fact, it had been the hallmark of my teaching up to that point. It was the foundation from which I drew strength when faced with the daily challenges of teaching in a public school.
An Identity Crisis
However, I had been rubbed raw by the first few weeks of the new semester, and on this occasion, I was left debased by the defiance displayed and the humiliation I had endured at the hands of this student and her peers; I was ashamed and embarrassed as my authority crumbled and my identity was stripped away. I tried to draw from my foundation of faith, keeping in mind that God is more interested in making my lifework His discipleship than He is in making my life easy. But I was shaken, shaken to the core, and shaken loose from the belief that Christ was there, guiding me.
Many educators would agree that teaching is a profession in which personal identity endures assault but not necessarily an ultimate destruction and breakdown. I knew that exploring my identity as a teacher required understanding the connection between emotion and self-knowledge (see Zembylas). Even with this understanding, I was on the cusp of an identity crisis, fully aware there was a disconnect in my emotions, faith in Jesus, and self-knowledge.
The setting of this revelation was a New York State public school euphemistically termed an “alternative high school” (AHS) that housed students who had been expelled from traditional school or who were mandated by court to attend as an alternative to jail. I had taken the job because I was up for a change and a challenge. I was not naive about the needs of these students. I had lots of teaching experience and, more importantly, a strong faith in God’s presence and love to guide me. Nevertheless, I discovered I was naive about the fragility of my identity as an “authority” in the classroom when my role as a respected leader collapsed. Everything I had learned about myself as an educator and my tools for teaching and managing a classroom were ineffective in this environment. The students were mostly from racial minorities and also happened to be mostly impoverished, neglected, and unsuccessful in many aspects of life. I was a well-educated, Christian, middle-class, white woman who had entered the classroom as successful, confident, privileged, and still trusting of public education. A few weeks into the semester, I felt disempowered, humiliated, and frustrated. Why had Christ led me down this path if he knew I would be driven to quit, a failure, full of anger, despair, and feelings of inadequacy?
The AHS was supposed to be an alternative education, but the alternative was not the education, which was delivered traditionally; the alternative was the type of student enrolled and the school’s acceptance of bad behavior and disrespect from students. Since students were mandated to be in class, teachers were told to do whatever was needed to keep the students present and engaged. This often meant that teachers were forced to tolerate behaviors that would typically warrant suspension. The administration’s spoken mantra was, “We don’t expel students, so you may have to tolerate some aberrant behavior. Do what you can to keep them in class and to prepare them to pass the standardized state tests.” A chance at passing a standardized test? If they had been passing standardized tests and realizing academic success, they wouldn’t be in alternative education! And indeed, to keep them in the classroom, I had tolerated aberrant behaviors that had demeaned these students and degraded me: using profanity, sleeping, eating entire meals, using phones, coming and going at all times, physical altercations, avoiding work or participation, and commenting when I tried to implement curriculum. I heard things such as, “Shut up, fat ass,” “Get outta my face and don’t talk to me,” and “I’m sleeping today so leave me alone, bitch.” On this particular day, the interactions were no worse than any other, but it was the low point when I heard myself, for the first time, snap an insult back.
Reshaping an Identity
This incident marks the reshaping of my identity as a Christian and a teacher, but I still see this shaping as an ongoing journey, not a destination. This crisis challenged my character and shook my faith in Jesus’s role in my life: I had to confront the painful truth that I was not as unflappable, Christ-minded, and capable as I thought I was when I faced students who were jaded and corrupted by the inequities of formal education (e.g., marginalizing, prejudice, tracking, biased text, and academic failure). In search of some foothold, I prayed. But prayer only elucidated the conundrum I faced. I so desperately wanted to retain my role as class head—the illusion of status and prestige as a respected teacher—while fulfilling my role to model and espouse Christian values through my curriculum and teaching. Through prayer, I also understood that these students were not going to recognize my status merely because I stood in front of the room. They had been failed by front-of-the-room-standers, and I was no different. Their defiance and indignation were their ways of asserting the identities of the marginalized, misunderstood, and resentful. My awakening and reform only started when I continued in prayer and accepted the path Christ had put me on, a path paved with sharp stones. It would not be impossible to cross, but it would be painful.
The way teachers think about themselves and their notions of their own identities are essential to a successful classroom with successful classroom practices. I read what I could on teacher emotions and identity and learned that journaling was effective in this exploration. So I began to write my story. I started to move toward an understanding of my teacher-self through an examination of my emotions. I needed to consider myself, students, administration, and curriculum in light of my sense of abandonment and failure as a Christian educator. I slowly began to realize the influence of the social context on my experience. Did I have to renegotiate my teacher identity in relation to this new type of student? Furthermore, I couldn’t ignore the fact that many of the students in the school were part of a racial minority. As an ELL (English language learner) teacher, I had a wealth of experience with diversity and was comfortable working with all types of students. But in light of these racially diverse AHS students who had been labeled “deviant,” the identity I had known before I had entered this classroom in September began to crumble. A sickening feeling grew that God had put Goliath in front of me, forgetting that I was no David.
Up to that point, I had constructed my identity as a teacher: I was a Christ-centered, devoted, dynamic, and culturally sensitive educator. I felt I was far from the stereotypical privileged speaker of standard English who stood in front of the room and delivered a prescribed curriculum. Nevertheless, because I fit aspects of the stereotype, I quickly found “the culture of power” (Delpit) a liability as a teacher in this environment; I could command little respect and, therefore, could not manage the classroom. These rules of power in schools are established by those with power. But “those” are often least aware of the existence of power relations. I realized that my mere presence in the front of the classroom was an affront to these students and to their identities of continuous marginalization by authority. I was deeply invested in my profession and had merged my personal and professional identities. My vulnerability had peaked as my self-esteem plummeted, and my belief in Christ’s support diminished after enduring the deconstruction of my strong, confident teacher identity.
Through prayer, I found myself, on my knees, lowered before God. As a Christian before God, I don’t feel the need to be in charge or to be recognized. Instead, I feel the pull of humility. “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves” (Phil. 2:3). One of the hardest things a person can do is humble herself to another because it requires “self” to be deposed. But, as Christians, our selves must be given over to Christ. Right? In giving myself over to Christ, wasn’t I giving myself over to His plans for me? The epiphany that had started in front of the screaming student manifested while on my knees in prayer, humbled before our heavenly Father.
Works Cited
Delpit, Lisa. “The Silenced Dialogue: Power and Pedagogy in Educating Other People’s Children.” Harvard Educational Review 58, no. 3 (1988): 280–98.
Zembylas, Michalinos. “Emotions and Teacher Identity: A Poststructural Perspective.” Teachers and Teaching: Theory and Practice 9, no. 3 (2003): 213–38.
Rachel Adams Goertel is an assistant professor of education at Roberts Wesleyan College. Her scholarly work focuses on linguistics and second language acquisition. Rachel is an amateur ornithologist, loves to read historical fiction, and can often be found fishing with her husband, James, and their young son, Henry.
