Both Sides: The Classroom From Where I Stand

By Rebecca Potter

The Classroom from Where I Stand is a collection of twenty-five short, narrative essays that look at the relationship between a teacher and her students. The thread tying these passages together is the connected humanity between teacher and student, and the implications of that connectedness. While the collection focuses on the author's personal experiences in education, her specific role as a teacher also serves as a vehicle to explore the more universal power that teachers have to do good for students. Rebecca Potter uses her experiences as a teacher and a student to explore questions within education, such as: why does education matter for the ones who are presumably doomed to fail anyway, what does it mean to care about a student, why do teachers stay in the field with so much against them? These questions are especially important as our country deals with serious matters like school shootings, pension issues, and teacher strikes.

Praise for Both Sides: The Classroom From Where I Stand
Remember that teacher who inspired you to grow larger than you thought you could? Who pushed you to think in ways you never imagined before? Who created a classroom where everyone felt safe, loved, and honored? This book of personal memoirs reveals the life of one of those teachers, from growing up to being a mother and wife, she takes the life lessons from these experiences and applies them to her school. These are wise, thoughtful, warm, sometimes heartbreaking words that lift up anyone who reads them, but especially all teachers who love their students and the students who inspire them.
--Ric Stuecker—author of Reviving the Wonder in Youth, Cultivating Kindness in School, and Inspiring Leadership in Teens

Rebecca Potter reminds us that the classroom isn’t the only place we learn, and some of the best lessons come from the people we thought least likely to teach us anything. This remarkable collection reads as more than just essays; it’s love letters and apologies, notes of appreciation, arguments, odes, and altogether a tribute to every person who has ever dared take on the awesome task of not just teaching but nurturing the next generation. Part memoir, part guidebook, Both Sides immerses readers in the stark realities of education today and resonates with triumph and genuine hope.
--R Dean Johnson, editor of Teachable Moments: Essays on Experiential Education

This timely, touching collection of essays captures what it means to be a public high school teacher today. In clear-eyed prose, Rebecca Potter gives us an intimate, empathetic look into the classroom, revealing the many problems students and teachers face, but also beautifully conveying her devotion to her students and championing the importance of public education.
--Carter Sickels, author of the novel, THE PRETTIEST STAR

• Language: English
• Publisher: Propertius Press
• Release date: Aug 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463529010

Rebecca Potter

Rebecca Potter has over fifteen years in the classroom teaching English, AP Language and Composition, Philosophy, and Public Speaking. She is a member of her school’s Teacher Leadership Board, department co-chair, reader for the College Board, and mentor for her district’s Teacher Internship Program. She holds a BA in English Education, an MA in Humanities with concentrations in Linguistics and Philosophy, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University. Her work has appeared in several literary journals.Rebecca lives in central Kentucky with her husband, three sons, and two bulldogs.

Book preview

Under a Big Sky: Where I Teach

Two days before school started, the entire high school faculty boarded two school buses. Our principal wanted us to get a better idea of where our students came from, so we went out into the county, around the hills, through the woods, and over the creeks to where the children lived. I sat by the window next to Allison, one of my best teacher friends.

As we began the route, I looked up into the sky through the bus window. I teach in Anderson County, in the middle of Kentucky, among the knobs of the Appalachian Mountains, in a little town on top of a big hill, so the sky is bigger here than most places in Kentucky; the sky is not crowded on the edges with hills and mountains. The vibrant neon pink and blue clouds at the start and end of the day go on and on. At night, the sky turns from a grey-blue to a deep, purple dark, the kind of dark you can’t see near the city. The sky is one of my favorite parts of living here. A big sky means possibility and beauty. It means we are part of something more than here.

But the farther the school bus ambled into the country, the less of the sky I could see. The light was swallowed by the shadows of large trees and blocked out by the sides of hills. We had been on the bus for more than thirty minutes now, traveling farther and farther from the high school and the center of town. The bus turned onto what I thought was a shady driveway, but what was actually a road. It turned and twisted through the darkness. Can you believe people live here? Allison whispered as we passed by a wooden slatted house, small as a shed and not much more stable. A rusted car sat in the front yard. The yard itself was outlined by a ditch that we might assume was a creek sometimes. Toys littered the lawn.

A few yards later, there was a small trailer home on a hill. No trees or shrubs or even a porch, just a dingy white trailer, bent siding and rusted bottom that sat on cinder blocks. It didn’t look like a home. I wondered who of my students might live there. Our administrator said from the front of the bus, Remember, our kids live out here. Don’t forget that when you get mad about them not having a pencil.

The bus kept going, traversing winding roads that hugged hills and crossed creeks. At one point, we had to stop for a teacher to throw up—the curves and hills and bumps were too much for her. We passed more shacks and more trailers. And we passed places that were not so sad and poor. We passed sprawling farms with idyllic white farmhouses at the end of long drives. As we came closer to town, we passed manicured lawns, spotted with big brick homes, then a subdivision on a small golf course, two-story homes with SUVs in the driveway and flower beds in the yard. Eventually, we crossed the train tracks that run through our downtown, right by the veterinarian’s office and the county park and the public library and the city hall. Charming, old historic homes sat across the street from rows of little houses that were almost falling apart, old For Sale signs in their yards, the weeds high around their posts.

My students’ parents work at Wild Turkey and Four Roses, distilleries that are our claim to near-fame. Some parents commute forty-five minutes into Lexington and work in office buildings or hospitals. Others work a few miles up the road in Frankfort for the state government. Some work on farms. Some of them don’t work at all. Nearly half of my students are on free or reduced lunch. Only a little more than half will go to college after high school.

Finally, we made it back to the high school. It is the heart of the community, but the building is old and falling apart. There is mold in the ceiling and the air conditioner barely works. Repairs have been piecemeal. Rooms and whole sections have been repurposed. The freshmen building used to be an elementary school. One of the classrooms used to be the cafeteria kitchen. The room used for PE used to be an actual cafeteria. Another classroom used to be a book storage closet. But no one minds that my students paint murals on my classroom walls.

A couple of days after the bus ride, it was the first day of school, and the building was filled with our kids. They arrived wearing cowboy boots, jeans, flannel shirts, and camo caps. Others wore basketball shorts and jerseys. Some wore leggings and baggy shirts. Some wore Aeropostale or Abercrombie. Some carried purses made by Coach, others backpacks from Walmart.

Noisy conversations, seasoned with pinches of a twang, streaks of a drawl, filled the hallways. They talked about their trucks, the Burgoo Festival next month, the football game next Friday. They gossiped about who was dating whom, who might be pregnant, who just broke up. They talked about their schedules and whom they hoped they would have a class with. They joked and laughed and flirted. Some just walked through the crowd, hugging their folders to their chests, head down, just trying to get through.

I listened and watched from my classroom door. Just as I had from the bus window a couple of days ago, I watched and wondered where they came from. Who they were. How much they were alike. Most of our kids are white; less than 10% are not white. All of our students speak English fluently, only a few speak it as a second language. Some of our students are part of the LGBTQ community, but the community is small and quiet. Some of our kids have never been outside of Kentucky or had a conversation with someone much different than themselves. Many of my students do not know what diversity feels like.

We have to try to teach these lessons to the kids in our classrooms.

After school, I stopped at Walmart to pick up some classroom supplies I had forgotten. I ran into Beth, my neighbor, co-worker, and my youngest son’s best friend’s mom. I talked with Megan. She cuts my hair and is my boss’s step-daughter. I heard a Hey, Mrs. Potter! from Yaneli. She was in my class last year. She was also my youngest son’s rec soccer coach. Her brother is my oldest son’s good friend. When I went to pay for my supplies and groceries, I chose an aisle where one of my students was working. I always do. I picked Tyler’s line. I asked him if he was excited about senior year and if he had thought about college yet. We talked about these things as he scanned my extra pencils.

That night I was too exhausted to cook, so my husband and I took our boys out to Don Pedro’s, one of the three Mexican restaurants in town. I knew at least half of the people there. As we sat down, I waved to Mr. Cooper, who sat with his family across the restaurant. He is a teacher friend and his wife is my sons’ pediatrician. I mouthed a Hello! to Mackenzie, who sat with her friends a couple of tables from us. She is one of my students, and she and her family go to our church.

There are more churches in our town than gas stations. It is a place that holds tightly to its Christian ideals and traditions, but it is also a place that is learning what it looks like to love people different from ourselves. Our community accepted the one Muslim girl in my class last year and the one Jewish boy in my class this year with eager curiosity and genuine affection. But the occasional racial slur or prejudicial sentiment is still muttered in the hallways. They are still learning.

When we came back from dinner at Don Pedro’s, I sat on my back deck with a glass of wine. I leaned back in my wicker chair and looked up. The sun was beginning to set and reflecting its colors on the clouds. The pace of life is slower here. We have time to notice the sky from our porch or our kitchen window or the park. We have time to look up. And the sky is so big. It stretches over us like a new painting each day, reminding us of how beautiful the day is. The colors change—pinks and blues and purples radiating from the moving clouds and rising or sinking sun—but the colors are always there, reminding us how much promise the world has and how exquisite our lives are.

My Invitation

Mom sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the awards banquet invitation as though she had received bad news from far away. Her lips turned down at the edges and her eyebrows scrunched together as she read the paper again.

Baby, it might be a mistake. Sometimes, they accidentally send these things out to the wrong people. She spoke slowly and with apology in her voice. I was only in first grade; I didn’t understand the big deal and didn’t really care about a mistake.

The year before I had started kindergarten, my mom bought several preschool workbooks. We sat in the middle of the family room floor, the workbooks spread all around us. I am the oldest, so my mom began my education with an eagerness that was visible in her smile and sing-song voice. Okay, Rebecca, use the pencil to find your way to the center.

Easy enough. It was a circle maze. Mom got up for a minute to tend to my toddler sister. I slowly traced my pencil through the lane on the outside edge of the circle and met the first blockade. I stopped my pencil and called out, Eerk! Stop! Red light! I then continued my pencil-turned-into-an-imaginary-car through the outer lane of the circle road, heading for my destination, somewhere far from that page in the depths of my imagination.

Mom returned only a moment later. No! That’s not it at all, sweetie. Her voice and face made me think I had done something very wrong. It seemed that I couldn’t get anything right in my new preschool book.

I started crying. My usual reaction, Mom later told me. Whenever she tried to teach me anything, from writing my ABCs to tying my shoes, I wept. I couldn’t articulate it then, but I was embarrassed by the process of learning. I didn’t want my mother, or anyone else, to watch me fail. My brain twisted things and made me think that if I failed, people—especially my mother—would maybe stop loving me. It was a part of the obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) that I wouldn’t be diagnosed with for another thirty years.

Eventually, my mom grew weary of my crying and stopped helping me with my preschool books. Instead, she bought me the Letter People audio cassettes and let me attempt learning on my own. I listened to them while she cooked dinner.

Before kindergarten started, my mom bought me a brand new satchel and all kinds of wonderful crayons and pencils and paper. I also received brand new shoes and socks with lace on the edges. Mom talked to me about what to expect on the first day and about how much she loved me and that I should obey my teacher.

On the first day of school, my mom spoke with my teacher for a long time while I sat at one of the little tables and met people who would be my friends for years, including Katie. I was so preoccupied with my friend-making, I did not care what my mom was talking about with my new teacher, and I certainly could not have known that she was expressing her concern about me possibly having a learning disability.

I made it through kindergarten just fine, and then first grade. My academic progress was never a topic of conversation. My parents were so silent on the matter that I had no idea what smart really meant. I did not know anything about grades or scholarly competition or preparing for college. I had no idea where I fit in—if I was below average, or smart, or that those categories even existed. I didn’t care. I just liked my beautiful teachers. I loved my friends. I enjoyed doing all the worksheets and activities. My intellect, or lack thereof, was never brought up and did not mean anything to me.

I think the same was true for my parents. They knew I was doing okay in school, but that’s all they knew. I wasn’t struggling. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t frustrated. But I wasn’t bringing home gold-starred papers to post on the fridge either. After school, in the kitchen, while my mom made fried fish or gumbo, I would tell her about all the friends I was making. I talked about Katie and Kang Pen and Christy and Nathan. She listened while she chopped onions or battered fish. We never talked about worksheets or lessons. It just didn’t come up.

At the end of first grade, a few weeks after getting the invitation that might have been a mistake, my parents took me to the awards banquet dinner. My mother maybe still wondered what kind of learning disability I had as we ate baked chicken and mashed potatoes and drank our weak sweet tea. She didn’t know what was responsible for so many of my odd behaviors. She didn’t know why it would take me more than half an hour