Parker defines identity as "an evolving nexus where all the forces that constitute my life converge in the mystery of self" (13).

I used to argue with a friend about whether we are mothers or whether mothering is something that we do. For her, parenting was  activity that occupied but did not define her. Whereas for me, mothering hit the very core of my inmost identity. Indeed, mothering remains my metaphor for teaching.

So let's visit that first. I am a woman who has long defined herself through mothering, a woman whose children have grown. Is this what they used to call "empty nest"? That always spoke to me of the busyness of mothering, the lack of which leaves an empty space in which a woman no longer knows who she is. And busyness was not what my mothering was about.

My own daughters' departure from the home was not so very traumatic for me. It was inevitable. Indeed, my mothering was designed to empower them to exist without me.

But is this, perhaps, a source of my discontent? I was mother. I created life within me, sustained it through the milk of my body. I spent my best energies on mothering, my time and talent and treasure. Indeed, mothering became the core of my true vocation. I began to publish because I believed so completely in the La Leche League message that I wanted to transmit that truth to all those whose children had left infancy and moved on to become little boys and girls. They still needed "loving guidance which reflects acceptance of their capabilities and sensitivity to their feelings" (LLL Philosophy #10). We all do.

Ah, let's look at this again. "My true vocation" was writing, publishing. Is that another core of my identity? I remember as a small child, in a light-filled room at the back of our old house, writing. Mother was cutting and pasting the pages of the newspaper she edited and she asked what I was doing. "Writing" I pronounced, and she laughed. I looked at my work and saw it for what it was, scribbles across a page, meaningless lines that wavered up and down, and I knew shame, for that was not writing.

But it was my vocation. My identity. As a young girl, I filled journals with adolescent truths. As a woman, I spent hours examining, refining, revisiting until the words on paper sang some revelation that I finally recognized as truth.

And so I now recognize one source of my discontent as a teacher. My students are not my children. There are too many of them to form that bond. Recognizing this, can I develop a new bond, one that honors the uniqueness of each individual who enters my classroom while holding a sacred space for the daughters of my body?

I recognize another source. I quit writing. There were parts of my life too painful to express. And just as I destroyed my old journals when I became pregnant, wanting to protect my infant from the pain recorded there, so I have deleted my illness from my life. And since I could not write dishonestly -- I learned that lesson long ago -- I did not write at all.

I lost part of my identity. But now, with the help of this blog, perhaps I begin to regain it. 

What can you do to “keep track of yourself,” to “re-member” your own heart?

            Well, I can write. That’s probably the most important thing I can do. I’ve silenced myself so I could stay out of trouble. Perhaps, though, it is time to speak honestly. I’ve hidden things so long, and hiding is detrimental to my health.

            I’ve just done something wonderful for myself. Our new administrator got a phone call from a mom making wild accusations against me.  I just sent a strongly worded rebuttal. In my closing, I explain that I have a detailed history ready to file should I ever hear of this again. I’m defending myself. This is very, very good. I deserve it. 

            For many years I would cry whenever some innocent character was defended by another. I finally realized that this related to my childhood, when I stood constantly accused for actions I had deemed both good and right. (They violated the cardinal rule in our household: be shaped by those older. After all, if I have no “self," expressing a personality or proclivity they dislike must be the grossest form of rebellion.) Anyway, I’ve moved so far past my old shame that I’ve actually defended myself. It’s a huge and entirely positive step for me.

            So, what is the self I need to keep track of, to re-member? It’s the writer. That is my true self, and I have neglected her for far too long.

I am a writer: intelligent, empathic, honest, humble, who, in honoring herself, reveals truths that lie hidden in all our hearts. I no longer need to hide lest I offend a parent or administrator. I am free. (Now, if I can just cling to that freedom!) – Ah! see how my language suggests weakness. “cling” is a weak word. I should embrace freedom. That’s more like it. EMBRACE FREEDOM!

What do you want your legacy as a teacher to be?

I don’t know.  All the goals that seem to satisfy others: “making a difference in one child’s life,” don’t really move me. What does it mean, to make a difference? If my student wrote that, I’d want specifics.

            I’d like to teach them to think. To ignite a passion for learning where it lies dormant, and to guide it into ever deeper, more intricate and intimate places. And that’s what I feel so incompetent at. This is a major source of my discontent. I want to take kids deep into ideas, I want them to understand that Golding’s view is wrong, that people are not evil. That’s how I structured the course. But we are constantly interrupted, constantly, with the need to teach parts of speech at the level of nouns and verbs, things which should have been taught in the elementary grades and which seem to have been overlooked. How can we make progress when we have to struggle with capitals and periods. How?

            But what would I like? I’d like to help clear thinkers express their unique ideas competently. 

What are the birthright gifts that you bring to your lifework?

"Birthright gifts" are things innate to myself rather than imposed through family life.

Empathy is one. I sense other’s emotions and react to those instead of to the front they present. Sometimes I respond to emotions people don’t seem aware of. This naturally makes many people angry.

            Intelligence. Daughter said scornfully “When are you going to understand that you’re smarter than other people?” I do have a kind of academic intelligence. If only I had more people skills. 

            Self-insight. I am acutely aware of myself.

            Sense of self. Mother and Grandmother wanted to mold me into their shape, their idea of what a woman should be. But I knew that way to be false to myself. 

            Honesty. One of my birthright gifts is honesty – that certainly didn’t come from the family. But it is hallmark of what I am.

            Looking at this list, I see good things: empathy, intelligence, self-insight, sense of self, honesty. These are good things. Why, then, do I sign my name without a capital? am I innately humble (good) or innately arrogant (bad) and using the signature to counteract that? Duh! I’m innately humble. Maybe that jibes with intelligence. I can learn from anyone, from anything. I always find a way to learn. So add that one to my list.

            Humility. 

Why did you become a teacher?

In 1985, because I was invited, and I was so happy I was invited that I said yes. I was finishing my Bachelor's at Texas State and got a letter inviting me to apply for the Master's program. It offered me a job as a Teaching Assistant (all the work but none of the perks of a professor). And while I didn't much care for another degree, I did love learning and didn't have anything else lined up. So I took the job and found that after the initial terror of standing in front of college freshmen, teaching was fun. But it was the invitation, not the activity, that moved me. 

As a La Leche League Leader, because I truly believed in the message. And to counter a leader who denied assistance to those who wouldn't or couldn't quit work and embrace breastfeeding poverty. My writing career grew out of LLL, as I sought to spread the message that had transformed my life to those whose children no longer breastfed. And that was a good time. 

I went to Texas Lutheran University in 2001 because, again, I was invited – the sheer joy of being recognized was enough. But the base pay, which translated to $1.33 per hour, wasn't. 

And, sad to confess, I entered the public school system in order to keep my daughter out of the local high school. That’s not a good reason. 

At first, I got a lot of pleasure out of the challenge. Then I got sick. I kept teaching when I was sick so my daughter would not war with her father, who preferred another district. I kept teaching when I was so very, very ill. When I almost died from complications of chemotherapy. I almost went to work on the day I almost died. 

Why am I teaching now? Money. But money has never been such a great motivator for me. Fear of what will happen if I quit. And because I've been offered another promotion, which translates into more work for the same pay. But it’s the invitation. The recognition. And the fear. 

Deep down inside, I don’t enjoy my work anymore. It’s more fun mentoring the young teachers than teaching students. Damn. I’m doing this for all the wrong reasons. Carol always says that the heart cannot hold fear and love simultaneously. I cannot teach from both places. 

Paradox

When I started teaching, I quit writing. Previously, I'd done an opinion column for a nationally distributed newspaper, and I truly enjoyed it. But I'm a crappy business woman; it hurt to send an invoice. I guess I still had that higher-academic reluctance to profit; maybe I just never cared that much for money. And when I broke down and got a real job, I quickly discovered that opinions are bad things in public schools. After all, an administrator might disagree. A parent might complain. God forbid. 

For 11 years, I've stifled my voice in order to keep my job. But now I'm (1) eligible for a small pension and (2) too burnt out to keep going. This blog, I hope, will do the trick. Because for some obscure reason that remains a mystery to me, I want to keep teaching. 

It was my daughter's suggestion -- such an odd thought, to put myself out there again, to see if anyone else feels as I do, if anyone would care enough to share their stories. In it's first incarnation, this was called Seriously Pissed Off Teacher, and I posted a seriously pissed off letter I'd written that basically said that Mom-From-Hell and/or her lovely daughter had fabricated an accusation out of the tiniest smidgeon of inoffensive truth. (I sent the letter, too.) I then dug deep and found myself somewhat annoyed that the not-supposed-to-be-painful intradermal flu shot (1) hurt worse than the old kind and (2) left me with a huge, inflamed, painful, itchy lump which persists five days after the fact. 

And then I ran out of angry.

So I changed the name and deleted the previous posts. And as I work through Parker Palmer's The Courage to Teach, I hope you will join me. But just to be totally honest: I'm writing under a pseudonym. Only under a pseudonym do I dare write honesty. 

After all, I teach in the public school system. 

Go figure.