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Introduction

 

I went thirteen years between peeing incidents in my classroom. 

 

On week three of my teaching career, with three minutes before dismissing my 8th graders for lunch, one boy abruptly shouted, “I just peed my pants because you wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom!”

 

Now, first-year teachers notoriously struggle with classroom management. This boy’s misfortune brought about the first and only time this class had sat in absolute silence all year. Twenty or so other teenagers just stared at me. They all had thought bubbles above their heads that said, “What are you going to do about this?” along with a sarcastic emoji. 

 

I raised one eyebrow and calmly inquired, “Did you… ask?”

 

Apparently, for reasons unknown to me, he had not asked because he didn’t think I would let him. To this day, I don’t know why. 💭 I do know why. He was out of free homework passes. He thought they applied to the bathroom as well. That was a conclusion he drew on his own. I had not refused a bathroom request my entire career! 

 

My career being three weeks old, of course. But I hear there’s something about Einstein’s Theory of Relativity that applies to teaching, that being in a classroom ages you faster than being outside one (or something like that).💭 Einstein’s Theory of Relativity says that time passes slower when you’re traveling at the speed of light. But, applying the law of, “I don’t need evidence when I know I’m right,” teaching in a classroom ages you much more quickly than being on the outside.  

 

With it being now two minutes before lunch, I dismissed the class early, and got the boy squared away with fresh pants from the nurse and a kindly custodian to clean up. I was only just getting to know this custodian, but he gave me a look that said, “First time?” as he sprayed a bleach mixture on the chair. 

 

It was the first time, and he seemed far too comfortable with cleaning up wet chairs. This worried me. At this rate, I was now on pace to experience 6 PIPS (Peeing Incidents Per Semester)! This led me to believe it would be a much more frequent problem than it wound up being. 

Mercifully, the next peeing incident would not happen until thirteen years later,💭 0.077 PIPS. As of this writing, the US Department of Education has not yet established a maximum allowable PIPS rate. when a tender-hearted second grader whispered in my ear, “I don’t know how it happened, but I was working and all the sudden I peed my pants.”

 

This time, I knew what to do. She was fine, and no one noticed. 

 

Week three was also when my desire to one day be a school principal vanished. I very much admired my principal. But now that I was in schools for real, I saw the principal refereeing the parent version of the famous kindergarten game, “He started it, why isn’t he in trouble?” I saw the principal dispassionately but effectively enforcing bothersome edicts from Central Office. I saw the principal have to deal with teachers like me, who put explicit phrases in his syllabus. 

 

That actually happened. In my defense, I was raised in a household where I was well-protected from anything “inappropriate.” I didn’t know the meaning of a wide variety of explicit phrases until 8th graders who uttered said phrases in my classroom wondered why they didn’t get in trouble, and other 8th graders then explained said phrase to poor, innocent, baby Mr. Dubczak. I simply copied a section from a college professor’s syllabus word-for-word because I thought his rules were witty and disarming. 💭 I saved this sophomore-year syllabus for three years so that I could copy it on my own syllabus some day. This story illustrates exactly how much fun I had in college. Also, this professor was not in the School of Education. There’s your first clue, Sherlock.

 

Oops. That made for a fun second-day-of-school conversation in the principal’s office. 

 

And the principal where I student taught, I don’t remember his name. I’m not trying to get away with being too lazy to invent a pseudonym here; I legitimately do not remember the name of the principal in the school where I student taught. All I remember is his revelation that the new superintendent being a “real data guy” seemed like it was utterly groundbreaking and that my mentor teacher told me that my not being an attractive woman meant it was unlikely this principal would hire me for next year. 

 

A semester of student teaching and three weeks into an actual job convinced me being a school administrator would be as pleasant as the ancient torture technique of being drawn and quartered.

 

No, sir. Not for me. 

 

Then something happened, and another three-week period changed everything. 

 

COVID.

 

In three weeks, teachers went from being celebrated with parades to being lambasted by TV talking heads. Mid-summer, after months of being told to avoid crowds and crowded spaces, we were now told, “But classrooms are okay,” and we had the audacity to raise our well-exercised single eyebrow and go, “Huh?” In three weeks we went from being the heroes of our story to the villains of a story someone else was writing about us. That story was selling better, and COVID was only one chapter in a dark and terribly misinformed book.  

 

Those three weeks turned me into an advocate. I absolutely admire teachers, and anyone who knows the full details of what they do would admire them, too. Even the teachers who I have at times disagreed with, I admire them. Even the teachers who I once, in year two, accused of being “arbitrarily mean to kids,” I admire you, too. 

 

God, if karma is anything, I will be punished by having a teacher like me on my staff. 

 

I absolutely admire teachers, but perhaps we have closed ourselves too much within the walls of our building and made it too hard for those on the outside to see what happens. As a principal, I can be an advocate for my teachers. I can open up the walls and show our community what we’re doing on the inside for their kids. Then, when we say to the community, “We need your help,” the community will come. 

 

Leaving is hard. Nothing is more important than doing right by my students. But, it took me thirteen years to realize that the skills it takes to be a good administrator are skills I have, and maybe that’s the best place for me. 

 

In my fourteen years of teaching, I have served thousands of students; I’ve taught every grade PK-12; I’ve written curriculum from the ground up; I led students in making award-winning films because I hated study halls; I took fifty 8th graders to Washington, DC, and did so multiple times; I abandoned my tenure and everything comfortable to change career lanes because I needed a new mountain to climb; I made friends, got married, and tried a plethora of hobbies; I managed the city pool and coached the swim team; I spoke up in front of a legislative committee. But, above all, I learned. 

 

Over the next school year, I will document my fourteenth and final year of teaching before leaving the classroom and heading to the administration lane. It will be a humorous, uplifting, and inspiring look back, look forward, and look within. Mostly, I don’t want to forget these lessons on the way to the principal’s office. 

 

I supported my students only because my principals supported me, and it’s time to pay it forward. If I can’t get my teachers paid more, I can at least make the school a great place to work. And when that happens, the school becomes a great place to learn. 

 

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David Dubczak is an educator and writer documenting his final year in the classroom before transitioning into school administration. Follow David Dubczak - Writer on Facebook to keep up with semi-weekly posts. 

 

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