Many teachers suffer anxiety dreams in August, and I'm no exception. I used to think they would abate as I became a more experienced teacher, but, entering my twenty-sixth year of teaching, they really haven't. I take this as a good sign, although I don't welcome the dreams. I hope it means that I'm still interested in doing my job well, that I'm not burning out or drying up.
Anxiety dreams aren't nightmares, exactly, they're just unpleasant.
The most memorable comes from August 1988, before the start of my fourth year of teaching, probably around the time I started to think of myself as a teacher and not as someone passing time, trying to figure out what to do with my life.
We had had a rough 11th grade the year before, and it was hard to imagine these trouble-makers as seniors, student leaders. Two stood out, in particular, jokers and clowns.
In my dream, I had class with them in the school library, for some reason. I was dressed in a blazer, shirt, and tie, but had nothing on from the waist down (maybe shoes and socks; that wasn't my focus). They didn't notice my nudity, but I was acutely aware of it, and just wanted to find some way to leave in order to put on some pants. The students wouldn't settle down, though, and the two I was most concerned about were front and center. I walked over and slapped each across the face, hard.
That's the dream. But it doesn't end there. They returned to school as seniors a couple of weeks later and were one of the better behaved, more dynamic classes I have taught. And the two subjects of my concern remain among the staunchest supporters of the school, decades later.
This summer I've had a series of anxiety dreams, none particularly noteworthy. I believe I'm getting used to them.
I also get a knot in the pit of my stomach before the first day of school, as I did as a student, and I get nervous before the first day of any new course, even one that starts midyear.
Once we get going, however, that all melts away. I can't wait.
