Regarding some things, I feel like it is ok to suspend one's belief and acceptance of reality until the moment when it is absolutely necessary. What're those things? Probably extremely happy things, or extremely sad things, but mostly sad. The discussion regarding LAUSD's financial state and budget cuts are as much a part of my teaching experience as lesson planning, assessment, and parent conferences. From my first year as a teacher in 2005, a persistent rain cloud made it's appearance each Spring. Spring is when administrations had to figure out whether or not the school would have enough money or students to continue to employ me. Each year, I "got lucky." 'Mr. Erving, good news! We can fund your teaching position- we were afraid that we were going to lose you.' I was even told by one LAUSD veteran not to worry about RIF notices, the district issues them every year as a precaution, then they're rescinded.
Now, I consider myself to be a pretty logical person- maybe even to a flaw at times. When the whispers are confirmed by the piece of paper that I have to pick up from the post office known as a RIF (Reduction in Force) notice, that's when the rubber hits the road. UTLA defines RIF as "an involuntary separation of an employee from service due to a shortage of funds, lack of work, organizational changes, or other reasons of business necessity which require reduction in staff. Employees are laid-off and lose their job with the District." That separation, much like the involuntary separation of the death of a loved one, brought with it it's own grief.
I always knew that I'd grow up to work in education. After working in both elementary and middle schools, I had an itch to work in higher education. The decision as to when or whether to scratch that itch was cemented by that letter. It's funny because that RIF letter impacted me so much, and I can't even remember if I opened it or not. I knew what was in the envelope, because my coworkers had begun to get theirs. Why open it?
June 6, 2008, I participated in UTLA's one day strike as a way to voice my anger about proposed budget cuts and how they would affect Los Angeles schools and students. As I prepared to write this blog, I looked back at the pictures that I took that day. My coworkers and I with our signs and red t-shirt on a bright sunny LA day, smiling for the camera as we blew whistles, chanted and marched the streets of downtown. I think that was grieving, but that was stage 1. Denial. Denying the proposed cuts impacts on me, focusing on how they'd hurt my students. I hadn't really processed how I felt, how I feel.
With being warned of the involuntary separation, I decided it was best for me to secure employment elsewhere, try really hard to secure something else. Despite how empowering it was to take control of my professional future, I almost cried while walking to my car after packing my boxes. Was this really it, how it was supposed to end? There was no way I was going to wait around and see if I'd be sitting at home in the fall or if I'd be lucky enough to become a day to day substitute.
I would think that with the distance that time has provided that I'd be emotionally a bit less on edge when discussing it all. So it was a surprise to me, when grief stage 2- Pain and 3- Anger & Bargaining blindsided me as I discussed how "last hired first fired" policies impacted me with LA Times reporter Jason Song. For 4 years I put my all into my job, my students, my practice. I became a teacher to impact lives. I volunteered to teach in an area that many teachers refused. I excelled under great mentorship and professional development. If it was anyone's curtain call it should be that of the ineffective, the lazy, the teachers who are there because they feel they have nowhere else to be. Right? You fire people whose performance does not meet expectations.
As I am writing this, entering deeper into stage 4- Reflection, I find myself almost ready to bargain. This grief is a curious thing; involuntary separation sure can put you through the ringer.
