Butterfly Revolution Survivor

This week, I began my 41st year in education. 41 years as a teacher, first in high school and now as a college prof. The number staggers my meager brain. 41! More than four decades. That’s one more year than it took Moses and his crew to get to the Promised Land. Apparently, I’m slower than Moses because I’m not there yet.

Every year is different, every semester, every day. Heck, no two classes are ever the same. You plan to teach the exact same content to back to back classes, and the two experiences will be totally different.

This year I’m at Hebron High School (dual credit seniors) on M/W, 8:20-9:50 a.m. Then I head over to Collin College for an 11:00 a.m. class and close my day at Collin with a 2:30 group.

I’m still lovin’ it, as Micky D’s would say. Yes, I enjoy the paycheck as well. Let’s be honest, I wouldn’t do this for free. But there’s something about the adrenal glands firing in the first minute of class, the challenge of maintaining their attention AND communicating content, and landing the plane as time ebbs at the end of the period.

41 years is a long, long time, especially considering teaching was my fallback position. The original career plan was youth pastor, but after a stint as an intern at a church during my senior year of college, I hit the brakes and made a big left turn toward teaching.

It wasn’t easy. In two years, after I earned my California credential, I could’t find a job in CA. Nada. Melanie was preggers, and I had a piece of paper saying I could teach, but nowhere to call home and no paycheck. It was desperation time. Hello, Illinois and Wheeling High School!

Anyone who tells you teaching is easy is lying or delusional. There’s a reason most adults choose other careers. You’ve heard the talk: teachers only work nine months, they’re overpaid, pensions are too generous. In short, it’s a cush job. Like any job, teaching has some perks. But let me ask you this: if teaching is so easy, why doesn’t everyone do it? Answer: because it’s freakin’ difficult.

I was young then, arrogant, raw, and incredibly insecure in my abilities, if that makes any sense. I really believed I could become the best teacher in the building, but I wasn’t quite there yet. Ha! After a single class period, I was gobsmacked.

August, 1985. I sat in the WHS English Office during first period (my planning time), waiting for the moment I could unleash my prodigious pedagogy on the eager students. How fortunate they would be!

That’s a complete lie. Palms sweaty, stomach churning, I wondered how long I could endure this charade. Teacher? Pffft. Whatever I had done in student teaching left me ill-prepared for this moment. I was terrified. When the bell rang, I walked slowly to room 152, overwhelmed at the thought of teaching for 45 minutes.

Room 152 was Pat Doyle’s domain. In the middle of his career, Pat was already an icon at Wheeling. Basketball coach, Honor’s English teacher, a spinner of legendary yarns. On St. Patrick’s Day every year, Pat busted out his green shoes and his perfect patter of blarney. Me teaching in Doyle’s room is the equivalent of me hosting a football clinic in Patrick Mahomes’ backyard.

The class was Popular Lit, an average level English class for juniors and seniors. Voice quivering, I took attendance. I did it slowly, hoping to milk the moments, so they wouldn’t notice how much I didn’t know. Eventually, I ran out of names. It was showtime.

Our opening text was a novel called The Butterfly Revolution. I owned a speech degree and my English minor provided only rudimentary ability to analyze literature. In this case, day one of the 1985-86 school year, I had only read the back cover and the first forty pages of the novel. But since I had read none of the books in the English Division book room, and this one was simple, someone handed it to me. “Teach this one; you’ll be fine.” I wasn’t fine.

The plot is sort of a knockoff of Lord of the Flies, a summer camp where the teen campers revolt and eventually kill the camp director. Perfect. If they need ideas about how to deal with a lousy teacher…

After taking roll, I yammered and blathered for the rest of the period. Honestly, I have no idea what I said. It wasn’t good. My overarching memory is not what I said but the blank stares from my students. Finally, mercifully, the bell rang. I had survived.

Nobody committed to major in English because of my golden presentation that day. But I had survived. The class didn’t rise up to overthrow me and chant, “Ding-dong, the teach is dead.” That’s a win.

One guy, Greg, lingered as everyone left. “Hey, Mr. Hurley, what are you doing Friday night?” Odd question, I thought. I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m the starting varsity quarterback. You should come out and watch us play.” Then he left.

I can’t explain why, but his comment salved my bruised psyche. Maybe I could do this job. The egg was laid, the chrysalis was forming.

The Midwest experiment was supposed to be a one-year wonder, a sub for a teacher on maternity leave. One year evolved two and three and eventually thirty-three. After a great run at WHS, I transitioned into teaching college speech. More fun and far less grading compared to teaching English.

Holy cats, now I’m beginning year 41! I no longer fear a Butterfly Revolution in my classroom. I’m better prepared and not so cocky. I still have teacher nightmares, but my palms don’t sweat before class. I keep getting rehired, so I must be doing something right.

Another forty years seems unlikely, I suppose. I have no idea how long my wings will flutter, but for now, I’m enjoying the ride.

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