Messing People Up

[When teaching, my 6th period class decided to call me Ms. Gibbs, after the apparent rapper, instead of Ms. G or even my real last name. I let them. Although it started as a joke, they became possessive of the nickname, not allowing other students in different classes of mine call me that. It was weird yet seemingly endearing. Come to think of it, I don't think they ever cared to learn my real last name, regardless of it being posted over the board.]

I stopped teaching a little over a year ago. I still hate the fact that I could only last one year. The thing is, I learned quickly that teaching wasn't for me. Some people revel in the idea of shaping the minds of young adults, but I learned quickly that it wasn't nearly what I thought it would be. I hated being mean. I hated yelling at my 16 year olds every day. I hated crying every night because of how unhappy I was. I didn't give up, I lasted a full year and my kids never once saw me weak, but I knew that I couldn't enter the battlefield anymore. 

The other day at my parent's house, I found my "yearbook." At the end of the year, my students, after finding out that I wouldn't be coming back, wanted to write me notes, as if they were signing my yearbook. I brought in a black and white composition notebook the next day, which was filled out with lovely little letters. Some are superficial, not quite personal and not quite caring, yet some are honest. To this day, my favorite message was written by a student who I really didn't care for. He was loud, obnoxious and lived for the attention of his classmates. He was never quite and would quite literally quack sometimes. He was smart, yes, but didn't care enough to do his work, no matter how much I worked with him. Anyway, here is his note (uncorrected):

Ms. Gibbs, 

I was fun an interesting having you as our English teacher but you mess everyone up. We were all expecting some old lady but we got you. You were fun cool an young an could relate to us. Its sad to hear you won't be here next year but thanks for messing us up. Next year we wont know what to expect but were hoping it will be someone like you.

That was the boy who gave me my nickname. I like looking back at the note and realizing that, regardless of the fact that I may not have molded them into decent young adults, I did make a small difference. I met 130 16-17 year olds that year. Sure they won't be doctors or lawyers and most of them will probably go back to jail at some point (I had quite a few jailbirds), but maybe, just maybe, they did learn something from me. I know I learned something from them. 

I don't regret leaving teaching. Maybe I'll go back to it again one day, who knows, but I'm content with where I am now. I still have a handful of the kids e-mailing me and that's always a pleasant surprise. And although I'm uncertain as to where I'll be next, I know I'll be okay. If I survived teaching, I can survive anything. I just hope I'll be able to mess people up again. In a good way.