Learning the Force

Halloween is a cool time to be in close proximity to a lot of children. There is something so genuine about the holiday, despite its emphasis on disguise. Yesterday the kids wore their costumes to school. We had the usual mix of horror movie characters, princesses, witches, werewolves and ninjas. Dressing up is the ultimate playful act and it's fun (and often super cute) to watch kids play when I spend so much time trying to get them to stop playing and be serious.

And, of course, since the kids were dressing up, the teachers did, too. I wore a full-length, black cape my mom made me when I was a teenager. It's the most beautiful piece of clothing I own, but I don't have a chance to wear it very often. So I dressed in all black and put on the cape. With the hood up and a suitably solemn expression, I decided I could pass as a Jedi. (Although the kids came up with other options, most of them having to do with characters in Lord of the Rings, though I didn't have the outfit or the ears to pull off a hobbit.)

I didn't even know if the kids would know what a Jedi was--but they all do. Some even knew about the scene in the original movie when Obi-Wan Kenobi hides R2D2 and C3PO in plain sight by using his Jedi mind powers on two Stormtroopers at a road block. (These aren't the droids you're looking for.) I was joking around in class about that scene, going up to kids and moving my hand, Obi-Wan style in front of their eyes: You aren't tapping your pencil incessantly on the desk; you are studying for the quiz so you get an A. We laughed and moved on, but it got me thinking. Being a teacher is a lot like being a Jedi. And it's not just about messing with kids' minds.

Maybe it was the hood. Maybe it was billowing around school all day in a long, black cape. But hear me out on this one because I'm not trying to be cheesy. (Nor am I really much of a Star Wars fan.) But from what we see in all of the movies, being a Jedi is mysterious. It requires a mix of rigorous training and genuine faith. Sound familiar? I'm thinking of another scene in the original movie when Luke Skywalker has a helmet covering his eyes. Light saber at the ready, he is trying to deflect laser beams being shot out of a small ball hovering around his head. He doesn't know when the laser beams are going to be shot or where. But Obi-Wan (monitoring nearby) encourages him to relax and use his feeling and instincts to guide him. Luke gets shot in the butt a couple times, throws a fit, wants a clearer answer but Obi-Wan is insistent that there is no other way.

If there is a better metaphor in film for learning how to be a classroom teacher, I challenge you to find it. Although instead of one hovering, laser-beam-shooting orb, imagine, say, 25 or 30. True, I don't walk into the classroom every day with a helmet over my face, but, as with all human interaction, I can't see clearly into the hearts and minds of my students in order to provide exactly what they need at all times. I have my tools at the ready and a clear understanding of the goal, and then I have to get on with it, trusting my instincts to channel the laser beams where they need to go. And, despite my best-laid plans and intense concentration, they often nail me in the metaphorical ass. Yesterday, in fact, my last class was mostly laser beams and despite my Jedi-cool outfit, I was no Obi-Wan.

These days, though, classes like that are rarer than they once were. Which brings me to the next way being a teacher is like being a Jedi. Like Jedis, every teacher needs a mentor but, like Luke, one's teaching mentor is going to sound like they are spouting vague, Kenobi-ish platitudes for a long time before anything s/he says really makes sense. In the movie, Luke rips off the helmet and stalks off to pout in a corner of the Millenium Falcon after getting zapped one too many times. Obi-Wan can only watch him go. I was reminded of this earlier in the week when talking with a colleague who is struggling. Her classes are improving markedly (no crash and burn here, and I've seen plenty), but she is in despair. The laser beams are coming too fast and furious. It's very dark inside her helmet, and she's not sure if her light saber is even working. I sat there and felt every single thing she was saying. I tried to channel my own teaching mentors, true Obi-Wans, with their finger on the pulse of the Force itself. But I also knew everything coming out of my mouth sounded like dialogue from a cheesy sci-fi movie from the 70s. It was the equivalent of "trust your feelings, Luke" with some practical logistical advice thrown in. It was the kind of advice I remember hearing and not really understanding from my own teacher mentors. The task seemed too big, and I felt blinded by my inexperience.

Which brings me to the last way being a teacher is like being a Jedi. To maintain their classic cool and draw strength to battle evil, Jedis connect to the Force. The Force is described as the combined consciousness of all living things, a power that can be tapped and channeled, by those who know how to use it. This concept is either cool or ridiculously woo-woo, depending on your point of view, but it does have implications for teaching. In fact, it has implications for any activity that is too complex and emotionally charged to quantify in a spreadsheet or checklist, as education is, despite continued and sometimes worthy efforts to fortify and box it like breakfast cereal for delivery anywhere, anytime. It's something I've known for sure only recently, but one I have felt since July 16, 2003, the date the school where I worked in San Francisco opened. Teachers need a Force. They need others to draw on when things when things get tough or the laser beams are coming fast and furious or the Death Star of institutional racism and educational inequity becomes too much to handle. They need colleagues who believe the same things about the work and are willing to put those beliefs into action repeatedly. Like the living consciousness in the Star Wars movies, these belief-inspired, repeated actions add up to something else, something bigger. Something like a Force that keeps a school, a classroom or a teacher moving when there is nothing else. I would be lost without it, as would anyone, I would argue, who has to feel their ways in the dark for as many years as teachers do.

So I came home last night and hung up my cape for another year. I had a head full of deep thoughts and a vague notion that I needed to buy a light saber as a prop for next year. Take that, laser beams! And may the Force be with us all.