Baker Elementary
I'm an empath. Unfortunately, my empathy can sometimes hinder my ability to do the right thing. This became evident during my final years of employment before I retired.
I was hired at Baker Elementary about five years ago, and I was ecstatic about the move. The students there are loving and cheerful, and the staff consisted of a mix of young and veteran teachers who were in desperate need of assistance with educational technology—my specialty.
In addition to being an empath I'm also a hopeless helper. There must be a psychological term for those of us who find happiness in helping others. I’ve researched various personality types and found many explanations for this behavior, but none fall under the category of “normal.”
Still, that’s who I am. Baker was a perfect fit for me. The students needed me, the staff needed me, and the administrator showered me with praise at every opportunity. I should have been a bit suspicious of that, but I was intoxicated by the joy I felt from helping them.
My first few years at Baker were a dream. I worked hard, often dedicating many weekends to my job. It felt worthwhile; I believed I was giving my all to those inner-city students.
Assisting the teachers was a bonus. There was always a new technology initiative in the district, and I was able to train the teachers on it. Even better, I enjoyed helping individual teachers with issues like printing problems and projector malfunctions—tasks right up my alley, as I had spent several years in the district's EdTech department.
In the eyes of the administrator, I was a star. At every staff development or school event, she called me out for doing an exceptional job. I should have realized then that this wouldn’t last; after all, the brightest stars often burn out the quickest. But I basked in the accolades, even if I didn't particularly care for the spotlight.
That’s how my first few years at Baker unfolded—a truly educational dream come true for me.
Then something shifted, or perhaps I simply began to notice it. Some of the teachers were unhappy because they didn’t feel recognized as the best at their craft. They didn’t voice their feelings in meetings and kept their heads down to avoid the spotlight. They still loved to teach, but outside the classroom, they felt invisible.
I tried to encourage them to get involved because it was “so fun,” but they didn’t heed my invitation.
I also noticed how the administrator treated them. In meetings, their ideas were dismissed, and in private, they were told what they were doing “wrong.” I was always fixing technology, so I was in each of their classrooms while they were teaching. To me, things looked fine. However, to be perfectly honest, although I held an administrative credential, that was not my role or responsibility. So, I overlooked the negativity, even though I was well aware of their dissatisfaction.
The rest of that year was a love fest between the students and me. I loved being there with them, and they seemed to love me. So, it wasn’t hard to overlook the problems faced by my colleagues.
As the year came to a close, four of those teachers had had enough. They wanted to leave the school, a decision influenced by the administrator assigning them less desirable positions for the following year. One teacher was moved to a class he certainly wasn’t qualified for.
This hit me hard. I loved those teachers. They were not only good educators but also good people.
I had turned a blind eye to the indignities they faced until then, but this was too much. I was being treated like a star when I knew I was no better than those who had fallen from favor.
Did I speak up? No. I let it slide, but it changed me.
The following year, I decided I wouldn’t put extra effort into my planning. I certainly wasn’t going to work at the school every weekend.
I regret this decision because I was losing my passion for teaching and it was eating me up inside.
On top of losing the four teachers, the new replacements were fresh graduates from a single university. There was nothing wrong with them; I liked them, and they were competent in the latest teaching strategies. But the whole situation felt unfair to me. Four dedicated teachers who wanted to stay at Baker were replaced by four inexperienced ones. For goodness’ sake, I don’t even think any of the 6,000 teachers already working for the district had a chance to apply for those positions.
This was undeniably a coup.
Still, I continued teaching the students with a cheerful attitude and love in my heart. But I had changed, and it was noticeable.
Again, I felt guilty for not being the teacher I once was. I should have left the school as well, but I stayed, discontent with how my colleagues had been treated.
But what had I done to help them? Nothing. I played it safe and didn’t express my feelings about the teachers leaving to the administrator.
This went on for two years. I was no longer the “Teacher of the Year” I once was; I was just an average teacher biding my time. I hated that, both for the school and for my own disappointment in myself—for not standing up for the veteran teachers and for allowing the situation to affect my teaching.
After discussing it with my wife, I told her I was ready to retire. We reviewed our finances and realized things would be tight, especially since we were still paying over $60,000 a year for our two sons’ tuition.
But the die was cast, and I knew I had to leave. With my wife's support, I retired the following year.
I’m happy to say that retirement has been a joyful adventure living in Mexico. Although I miss those students dearly and want to visit them, I know it was the right decision.
I hope that in the future, I will be welcomed back to that school to express to the students and staff how much they will always mean to me.