Keep Reading
As we enter the final stretches of the school year, I am DELIGHTED to spotlight this wonderful educator, Dr. Monica Lewis, and to publish her guest post about DOCTORING below. I’ve read it seven times, maybe eight!
Dr. Lewis is the kind of teacher that young people (and their parents) remember well after school. She not only inspires imagination and curiosity in her students, she is a model of grace, wisdom, kindness, and humor. And thank the LORD for the latter (she taught both of my sons). She reminds us below that teachers are more than the sum of their daily lessons; they are thinkers, connectors, and educators to us all.
Dr. Lewis holds a PhD in British literature from Harvard University and teaches eighth-grade English at St. Albans School in Washington, D.C. She lives in Maryland with her husband, their two daughters, and the mostly-finished draft of her first novel.
ENJOY HER PIECE HERE:
When I was small, five or six years old, perhaps, a letter arrived in the mail addressed to my father. There was a “Dr.” in front of his name. “Is dad a doctor?” I asked, trying to reconcile the book-wielding, research-traveling, briefcase-toting, often-scribbling man with what I knew a medical doctor to be. A person in a white coat who made you well. A person who actually knew what to do if your brother put a raisin up his nose. My mother laughed.
“Well, yes,” she said. “But he’s not that kind of doctor.”
Neither am I.
Like my father, I am a doctor of words. I am woman once-well educated in literature, most of which I’ve forgotten, and battle-tested in the fine art of convincing teenage boys that words are wonderful things. I do possess a certain set of skills. I can read. I can research. I can write. But I’m not that kind of doctor.
It’s a handy phrase.
It’s a handy phrase at home.
“Sweets? Can you check my neck to see if that rash is back?”
“God, no! I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Um, what’s that on our daughter’s face?”
“Not sure. Chocolate, maybe? Dried blood? Feces? I’m not that kind of doctor.”
It’s also a handy phrase in the classroom, among thirteen-and fourteen-year-old boys.
“Dr. Lewis? I think I just lost a tooth?”
“Sweet lord. RUN to the nurse. I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Dr. Lewis?
“Yes.”
“This is kind of off-topic.”
“Ah.”
“Yeezys or Jordans?”
“Hmmm. Remind me which is best for bunions? I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Dr. Lewis?”
“Yes, my child.”
“What are you a doctor of, exactly?”
I am a doctor of thinking and learning. Of synthesis and analysis. Of trying to make you a better thinker, and of trying to make you a better writer.
I am a doctor of books, I tell them.
So when they asked the questions about the virus that was coming, about what the death rate might be, about why people were buying all the water, or about whether school would close early; when they asked if we might not have school for the rest of the year, or if the kid seen licking all the doorknobs in the hallway was going to catch the virus, I had an answer: “I am hoping for the best,” I said. “But I am not that kind of doctor.”
And now we are ten weeks in. And I am not a doctor of so many things.
I am decidedly not a doctor of virtual teaching. It takes a color-coded planner, piles of post-its, and alarms on various devices for me to simply remember when my classes meet (try not to judge—we’ve got a modified seven-day rotating schedule); the rest is like being a first-year teacher all over again, and not in the good ways. The re-crafting of lessons, the re-working of boundaries, the re-calibration of expectations, the attempting to connect through a screen—all worth it. But all so out of balance.
Nor, it turns out, am I a doctor of schooling at home. Nutritionists, optometrists, pediatricians: I owe you all an apology. If my three-year old writes her name three times, I now give her a piece (or two) of chocolate. If she eats her lunch while walking circles around the table, I count it a win. If my six-year old finishes three of her virtual lessons before lunch, she gets to spend quality time with HGTV’s Property Brothers. It’s not all a hot mess: there is plenty of baking and plenty of play. There are plenty of puddles and games and puzzles and stories while Mommy should probably be planning or grading, but there is also plenty—and I mean plenty—of PBS Kids.
Ambient lessons from Daniel Tiger, however, do little to calm me. I was born with a degree in anxiety. Maybe two. And so, for my own sanity, I have set my remaining research skills aside. I leave the hourly headlines and the promising new studies and the sobering projections to my husband. If it’s not coming at me in the soothing tones of Judy Woodruff or in the candid-yet-comforting emails of Dr. Lucy McBride, I often steer clear. Because I simply cannot sort it, no matter how deeply I breathe. I’m not that kind of thinker. And I’m not that kind of doctor.
My essential is staying at home. And in helpless-feeling moments, I try to believe that we also serve who only stand and wait. (That’s a literary allusion, Form II English, if you’re reading—I am still that kind of doctor.) But the serving often seems nothing short of marginal compared to all that is sacrificed on the front lines, and the waiting, for those of us who are wired to worry, can be a comedy of panicked errors. (Yes, Form II, that’s another one.) For me, the waiting is hiding packages as soon as they arrive so my children don’t touch them, but also making myself resist sanitizing the groceries my husband brings home. It is washing my hands until it hurts to move them, and then praying that my children weren’t lying when they said they washed theirs. It is convincing myself to allow the dryer repairman into my home and then castigating myself for not being woman enough to just drape my wet clothes on some bloody trees. Did the repairman and I wear masks? You bet we did. Did I feel better after mopping the floor, vacuuming the stairs, wiping the dryer down three times, and then just generally perfuming the air with Lysol? No. I did not. But I may have solved our mouse problem. I can hear little Squeakers now.
“Dang, lady. I’m outta here. You’re not that kind of doctor.”
So what kind of doctor am I these days?
I am a doctor of clementine peeling and mac and cheese stirring.
Of good-god-what-puddle-have-you-been-in-again asking.
Of being everyone’s favorite (I REPEAT: YOUR FATHER CAN ALSO GET YOU A SNACK/HELP YOU WITH YOUR SCHOOLWORK/FIND YOUR SOCK.) and also no one’s. (Yes, my lovely, I will be incredibly sad if you leave this house forever and ever and never ever visit it again.)
I am a doctor of eating all the takeaway tacos and margaritas, because the local economy and this doctor both need supporting.
I am a doctor of daytime alarm-setting.
Of hopeful planning and lenient grading.
Of saying, “It’s really good to see you guys” and hoping my students can hear how much I mean it.
Of standing and waiting. Of small ways of serving. Of gleaning all the gratitude. And then making it outweigh the rest.