The Hardest Job

I became an English teacher at Conval High School in 1999, after 26 years as a journalist, the last 23 of them as an editor and writer at Yankee magazine in Dublin. Last week I decided to look at the diary I kept -- intermittently -- that first fall. Here are some of the early entries:

Sept. 6, Labor Day -- Worked on planning for nine hours. Did no good at all. Didn't know what to plan. Graded profiles from American Lit. -- not as good as I'd thought after first quick read. Terrible on commas.

Sept. 9 -- Another horrible week. I feel like we're at war, and they're winning. Ended on a low note Friday afternoon when I tried to read "The Monkey's Paw " out loud, in the dark, to my freshmen. So much noise I lost my temper, turned on the lights, quit reading. It was all coming from the same half-dozen kids, and the rest were probably enjoying the story. But I ruined it for them all.

Sept. 11-12 -- Worked eight hours Saturday, six Sunday. Powerful anxiety attack Sunday night, Monday morning. No sleep, no appetite. Told May Friday night that I knew what was bothering me. I'm working twice as hard for half the money, and I'm failing.

Sept. 18 -- I have lost seven pounds, most of it illusions.

That gives you some of the flavor of that first year.

Things got better, of course -- I'm starting my third year now, the New Hampshire Department of Education has certified me as a "Beginning Educator," and I've gained back all that weight. But it's the hardest job I've ever done. Sometimes I think it might be the hardest job there is.