I Came to Teach, but Barely Survived

It’s 8:30 in the morning, and I’ve just arrived at the charter school, mentally bracing myself to face the eighth grade. I flashed back to my student teaching days—an afternoon spent observing eighth graders—reminding myself they’re not so different from high schoolers, where I’ve spent most of my teaching career. I took a deep breath and announced my arrival at the front desk.

Mandy, a young woman scheduled to be on my interview panel, came down to greet me. With a casual smile, she said,

“This morning you’ll be observing the sixth grade.”

“The sixth grade?” I blinked. “I prepared an English lesson for the eighth grade.”

“Yes,” Mandy nodded. “The sixth grade teacher quit suddenly. Our immediate need is to fill that position.”

Still stunned, I replied, “But my lesson is for eighth grade.”

“That’s alright,” she assured me. “They could still benefit from your lesson on narrative reading.”

Well, I was already there. Might as well give it a try.

I was escorted to my first class as an observer. What I witnessed was part low-level chaos, part reality show. Kids worked in fits and starts, alternating between hurling insults and popping in and out of their chairs like popcorn on a hot skillet. And if that wasn’t brave enough, I was about to deliver a middle school English lesson to a room full of caffeine-on-wheels sixth graders.

Next up: the class that could be mine. I stepped in, surveyed the room, and set up my materials while the current teacher—looking utterly worn down—wrapped up his lesson with the words:

“Put your butts in your seats!”

He bolted out as I stepped in. Then came the cavalry: the principal, assistant principal, Mandy, and three other teachers entered to observe.

I had just begun my lesson when a boy threw his feet on his desk and barked,
“Why are you here?”

I gave him an honest answer and pressed on, reading a passage to highlight setting and character. Before I could finish, one student grabbed a hall pass and announced his departure to the bathroom. Another stood up mid-lesson to strike up a conversation two desks over. The boy with his feet up declared loudly that he hated the story.

Despite my best efforts at classroom management, the next 40 minutes were a blur of interruptions and low-level rebellion. I wasn’t teaching—I was surviving.

By the end of the period, I felt bruised and battered.

The assistant principal informed me it was a “challenging class” as she led me to her office for the post-mortem. There, she dismantled my lesson: not enough feedback, no clear conclusion, and I hadn’t given English learners a chance to share their work.

At that point, I couldn’t help but ask what had happened to the last teacher. She dodged the question, but I was pretty sure I knew. That teacher didn’t just quit, she’d been run off by that sixth-grade, Children of the Corn class!

Honestly—It felt like a job better suited to law enforcement.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I knew I didn’t want to teach there, and I was confident the feeling was mutual. I stepped outside—relieved, exhausted, and disappointed. I’d gathered the courage to teach the eighth grade… got tossed into sixth grade, and the whole experience exceeded my worst expectations.