Why I Gave Up Teaching

Last night, I had a dream...

Okay, it was mid-afternoon, and I was trying to ward off a migraine. No Cyber Land involved. Anyway.

So, in this frighteningly realistic dream, I was directing an elementary musical. This was one of those extravaganza-type things, complete with set, lights, sounds, acting, dancing, singing, and general chaos. I've done this more often than I care to think about in real life, and they've always been huge successes, despite all the minor catastrophies that go into them. They are cute, preachy, and a lot more work than the educational benefit merits. But everybody loves them. Except maybe me.

In my dream, it was an open dress rehearsal, which we generally perform for the rest of the school. Enrollment must have been up, because the place was packed. The sound guys messed up, jumping to the wrong track on the cd, and then all **** broke lose. They couldn't fix the problem, the kids decided to go "on with the show" in three different ways at once, and I began a slow burn. Finally, we get the show back on track -- and the whole disaster begins anew. After a lifetime of this chaos, I blow up at the kids, get them in their places and quiet, and go back to the sound table myself. The sound guy begins to assure me there is nothing he can do (it happened to be my friend Jake, who's always trying to get me to take life easy -- does he realize how annoying that is to a perfectionist?); I was in the process of letting a string of choice words rip at him when I woke up. I was so incredibly angry about the whole thing that I think I woke myself up. Heart racing, seeing red, I was still absolutely seething, even as I realized it was a dream.

What's the big deal, you ask? I used to have a big problem with my temper as a child, getting overcome with these incredible rages that could have gotten me in a lot of trouble. I thought I'd mastered this as I grew up. I learned ways to vent frustration and anger that, though possibly not really healthy, didn't hurt anybody. Since I've been teaching, I've rediscovered my wrath. It really is like a monster inside, though it seems to feast on me more than others. Sometimes, granted, anger is extremely constructive and right. I had a nice talk with one of the world's best mothers on this point. She never thought yelling would ever be appropriate -- until her oldest was about three. Sometimes it's the only way. I don't think I've left irreparable damage on any of my kids -- they probably don't even remember my blow-ups at all. But it takes so much out of me to be so very angry. I become exhausted and ill and hate myself and hate my students and hate the world and hate my job until the only thing I can do is exhaust myself with practicing or working out enough to sleep, hoping tomorrow will be better. Maybe it comes with being a musician, a selfish, sensitive, artistic type of person; I just can't distance myself from my anger and frustration the way other teachers can. At least, I assume they can, because they keep teaching. Some of these people teach for forty years! Can you imagine? I'd jump off a bridge!

Maybe some people can take it for decades. I survived for five years, but that's it. I quit. Maybe after grad school, I'll have the maturity and perspective to teach again, for another five years before I burn out once more. Maybe not. For now, I'll go attack the piano until my mind goes numb.