Last Friday, the principal at the school I work at let me know that I am being offered a different position for this upcoming school year. A position that is a pay decrease. A position I have not expressed interest in. And a position that I am not qualified to teach.
Translation: the school wants me to leave.
I am actually a damn good teacher. I do great on my observations. I connect well with my students. I’ve won our department awards. So they aren’t able to just not offer me a contract. But I don’t fit their ideal mold. So they say they want to move me to a different subject. One that I will be unable to teach competently, so they’d be able to fire me next year. And then they offer to put in good words to other schools in our district if I want to look elsewhere.
Even if I could do that job, who would want to stay on at a school when the administration clearly doesn’t give a damn about you?
Yes, technically my contract means I will be getting paychecks through July, but I have been consumed by job hunting lately. I have applied for teaching positions in 5 different states: Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Oregon, and California.
No, I haven’t told them no yet, even though it is fairly obvious. I am trying to figure out a way to break it to my students. I have to do it carefully, because I don’t want to overshadow any of their end-of-the-year events.
Yup. I’m losing my job and they are still the first ones I think of.
Well, somebody has to put them first. And it sure as hell isn’t going to be the administration.
But I can start to feel the panic creeping in, with every additional application I submit. With every principal I e-mail my resume to. With every job post I read.
What if I can’t find another position?
I have a 1-year old. I need money for healthcare, food, a roof, daycare. I have an obligation to that tiny perfect human being.
I. NEED. A. NEW. JOB.
My husband thinks I’m over-stressing. He doesn’t quite grasp anxiety disorders. He sees needless worry, I see a litany of disasters about to fall on us if I can’t prove that I am a competent grown-ass adult who can get a damn job.
I had been meaning to start a blog to vent about my anxieties, since I feel like I am irritating him by talking about them. Writing is supposed to help (speaking of which: I wrote this for Medium ). And, well, like they say, no time like the present.
So here I am. A wreck. Pretending to be calm. Scouring websites. Trying to hold it together.
Breathe in, breathe out.