Othello seeping in...

I had a dream last night that took all my unexpressed thoughts, worries, dilemmas about who/what my community is, what I get out of teaching at a privileged independent high school, how my involvement in conversations about race is benefiting me and hurting me at the same time, and gave them a story with which to express them.

In my dream, I was teaching Othello to my juniors (as I am in the process of doing in my conscious world's Shakespeare class). The problem was, I was feeling very personally connected to the discussion of the text, to our comments on Othello, and getting very emotional as I was standing in front of the classroom facilitating an intellectual discussion. Somehow, I became aware that I was getting less and less competent in the eyes of my students, less and less effective as a teacher. In my mind, I was thinking I really ought to talk with my academic dean about what is happening to me and brainstorm some options; I was thinking maybe I should not be teaching these kids anymore. So in comes the music teacher. He is young and a boyish goof. He takes over my class, and I stay in the quiet role of just writing the salient parts of the students' comments on the white board as I usually do, but this time, I do it quietly without responding to the students, without posing them complicating questions. I listen, I write, I stay quiet. But I am thinking the music teacher is doing it all wrong; he is cracking up cheezy jokes and trivializing Othello. I am upset, but the students respond to his "jokes." Ten minutes to the end of class, I decide to leave. I give my -incompetent but well-liked- sub a hug and thank him in the doorway. I start crying and I can't stop. Before we part, though, he cracks up another flippant comment, so I take my arms off his body, look at him, no longer crying, and tell him that's it, he pissed me off, and I am staying. I take back my class for the last ten minutes, and I keep teaching in the style that made me think I was no longer able to do my job effectively, and I lose the students' interest left and right, but I stubbornly keep doing what I am doing until class is over. Only one student stays to hear me finish my sentence; others are out of there as soon as the class is over. I am powerless, and I know I need to go talk to my academic dean.

I leave the classroom. A student of color walks up to me over lunch and asks me how I liked living in Turkey while I was growing up there. S/he (the student was two students at once during the conversation, one male, one female, both students of color) asks me questions, and tells me s/he is thinking about going to Turkey for college next year. I ask if it is a year-long exchange program, but the student says no, s/he is thinking about going for four years at least. My heart sinks, and I think "you poor thing, you are going to choose to live in a strange country like Turkey, so unlike your country?" I tell my student, "You saw me in class; you know..." And I add this comment either in my head or aloud to the student, I can't remember which: "it will never be easy, and you will never fit in."