Saying Yes to Discomfort: My First Year of Teaching

“Tell me; what’s stopping you from saying yes right now?”

“Nothing.” I said. “I’m in!”

Nothing. That was a lie.

Sorry, Mom.

There’s maybe a thousand ways that this conversation could have gone differently. I could have been honest about the laundry list of things keeping me from saying yes, but honestly showing up as my full, deeply imperfect self that openly acknowledged I had a ton to learn and saying yes would begin a journey that would alter the course of my life

I entered the classroom as a teacher like the smart student who didn’t study for the test; thinking that my talent and charisma would be enough to do the work. I was wrong. But to give my myself some credit, I was also right. I got into the door. I made my interviewers laugh, my resume looked polished yet individual to me, my references were tight and glowing with praises. Despite a cringe-worthy demo lesson in a room of adults rather than children and a broken projector that required everyone to lean in and view the powerpoint on my laptop, the interview went well. Although I didn’t know it then, I was looking into the face of my soon-to-be principal and instructional coach. 

I didn’t know what a standard was. 

I’d vaguely heard of Common Core. 

I’d never written a lesson plan. (Not that I really had to that entire year, but that’s a different conversation.)

At the time of the interview I still lived about 1000 miles away from the school that I’d spend my first year teaching at. 

Regardless of all of this, I still finished the interview day feeling like the time spent preparing and the converging of twenty-two years of unexplainable opportunity against what immediately made sense had to mean something. I trusted that I was here for a reason. I trusted my experience. I trusted my worth and what I then believed my impact on kids that I’d never seen could be. 

The group of six huddled and whispered. From across the room I saw them comparing notes and nodding heads. What was probably only a few minutes felt like an eternity, but after the huddle we reconvened back in the middle of the empty classroom. Kevin would be my principal that first year. Kevin reminded me of my brother. He was a Black man in education who had made strides that I admired. He wore thick glasses and carried with him an authenticity coupled with a soft awkwardness that made me immediately trust him. I wanted to be on his team.

“I’d like to welcome you to the team!”

I accepted the offer and digitally signed my first teaching contract in the airport terminal at JFK that afternoon. I was being brought on as a middle school History teacher in Brownsville, (yeah, that one) Brooklyn, NY. And although it may speak to a much larger red flag with teacher hiring practices and despite my having zero experience in teaching History, I was genuinely excited. I was a Black male teacher going into the hood of Brooklyn to teach Black kids. The story almost writes itself. I was blissfully ignorant of what the role of a teacher would evolve into or of the culture of the charter school network that I’d accepted the offer from. I had zero inhibitions, zero preconceived notions, and I was merely eager to learn. Just ten days later I sat on the one-way flight to New York that I’d always dreamed of. A whopping  $17 sat in my bank account (not joking) and although I had little to no idea of where I’d be staying in one of the most expensive cities in the world, the enamor of the journey that I was embarking on was enough to guide me. 

The first year of teaching is hard, harder than anything you will ever do. You will feel out of control and you will question the sanity of whoever accepted your application. You will compare yourself to people who make it look so easy, but have years more experience than you. You’ll compare yourself to those who are first-years too, but still look like they have it under control. You will scroll through Instagram and look at your college friends thriving in grad school, in their new positions, or traveling the world on their gap year. You will cry. You will win and lose and oftentimes this will happen in the same day or within the same hour. Speaking about my first year of teaching won’t fit into just one blog post, but if there is anything that I’ve walked away with from this first year, it’s that children will be your light. They give grace in the moments we need it and challenge us to do better in the areas that we lack. The beauty of children is their ability to begin each day with a clean slate. Whether a consequence was given in a moment of frustration or a harsh word was said without consideration, my kids this year begun everyday the same way. They forgave.

“Hey, Mr. Pulliam! What’re we doing today?” 

Clean slate. I see you. What do you have for me?

The first year is tough, but you’re not alone. As a teacher you become a Swiss army knife of  ability. Some days you’re an academic with the keys to knowledge, some days you must navigate the legal system, other days you become a parent. Occasionally, your classroom will become a therapists office or the street on which you begin your protest as an activist. You will learn your kids and they will learn you. Ask questions. Embrace the mistakes. Celebrate your wins because there will be more than you give yourself credit for. Learn from your losses because there will be many to teach you. Sooner than you think, they will become your kids and you will decided that they are worth showing up for. 

Because they are. 

You are too.