“I’m getting tired of this!” Maurice does not agree with the consequence he just received. There was no denying Maurice was in the wrong. In fact, I repeated back the exact words he whispered when he was expected to be silent. And yet, he remains indignant, snapping back with what has become his de facto catchphrase. I ignore him and continue with my lesson, trying to maintain the trace of order I’ve established in my afternoon class.

When I refuse to engage, he repeats it again: “I’m getting tired of this!”

Two weeks later, I’ll be at Six Flags on an end-of-year field trip with a much different Maurice —a Maurice that refuses to leave my side despite his aversion to all rides that leave the ground. He will pester me constantly for the money I’m holding for him, and I’ll remind him that bringing $60 into an arcade is a bad move. And I’ll wish he brought that type of persistence to my Math class each day.

My first year of teaching was a collection of Maurice stories: a frantic, frustrating, sweaty cycle of ego busts and booms. I have never before been alternately humbled and aggrandized on such a regular basis. At this point, I would pay someone to tell me—definitively—whether I totally rule or totally suck as an educator. These are the thoughts that occupy my mind as I drive back to my Southeast D.C. apartment after Sunday dinner at my parents’ home in Centreville, VA. It’s a ritual—the family dinner, yes—but more so the drive. Those 30 miles transport me to a different world entirely, and I need that time to reflect and prepare. Which is why tonight, I feel extra fortunate that a poorly planned construction project on 66 has doubled my commute.

As I write this, I’m a week away from the start of my second year teaching at a charter middle school in Anacostia. The 30 miles between my school and the middle school I once attended seems negligible. My students and I root fruitlessly for the same doomed sports teams. We laugh about how D.C. overreacts to an inch of snow. We know the Metro system like the back of our hands (me, Orange line; them, Green). But the few things we share can’t mask the differences. My school is 99% African American, and I am 110% Caucasian. I had an average of 1-2 black classmates attending Catholic schools in Fairfax County.

Nearly all my students are economically disadvantaged and living in single-parent households. I was raised by two college-educated parents in an upper-middle class suburb. My parents will celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary this October. I attended a four-year university and am currently working toward my masters in education. If statistics hold true, my students will be lucky to see one of their classmates step foot on campus, much less reach commencement.

This only begins to catalogue the myriad differences between my students and me, and much of Year 1 was spent navigating those cultural divides. “My kids,” as I instinctively called them by their second week under my care, don’t tease one other; they “jone.” They don’t get frustrated; they get “guh.” It took about as long for me to decode this language as it did to realize that above all that divides us, one thing connects me at 25 years old to this group of 50 seventh graders: In my classroom, “good enough” simply isn’t. If my kids settle for “good enough,” they will fall short of their life goals—and could follow the same doomed path that plagues those in their community. If I settle for “good enough,” I will be pushing them down that same path. My kids are just as smart as yours. I would put them up against the best and brightest of Fairfax, McLean, and Rockville. The first week of school, I asked my students to pick the guests for their dream dinner party. A previously silent girl seized this opportunity to show off her enormous personality, answering “Lady Gaga” because “she might wear the table.” My students are creative, innovative, and—above all else—eager to learn. The problem is, few else believe that —and they have evidence. Students in Wards 7 and 8 (Southeast D.C.) greatly underperform compared to their peers in other parts of the city and surrounding suburbs. In fact, Ward 8—which includes my school—had the lowest scores of any ward in Math and Reading on the 2011 D.C. Comprehensive Assessment System (DC CAS).
According to data from the District of Columbia Public Schools Office of the Chancellor, 23% of secondary students in Ward 8 scored “Proficient” or “Advanced” in Math, compared to 78% in Ward 3 (Northwest D.C.). The Reading scores were even more disheartening (21% vs 78%). Look outside the city, and the gap becomes more pronounced. Take Stone Middle School in Centreville, the school I would have attended had my parents gone the public route. In 2009/10, 94% of its students were Proficient/Advanced in Reading and 81% in Math.

When I go home each Sunday, I often see kids playing in the street and wonder how they compare to Maurice, who entered my classroom on a first grade level in Math and Reading. I wonder if test scores are the only things that separate them, or if there is more to it. Growing up on that same street, I could have been the poster boy for a culture of “good enough.” I came into teaching via Teach For America, a program that plucks recent graduates from top universities and places them in low-income, low-performing schools for two years. I, myself, was two years out of college and working at ESPN in Bristol, Ct., when I joined Teach For America.

I was well aware of the Achievement Gap and TFA’s mission, but my reason for committing was more selfish. I needed to be pushed. Things have always come easy to me. Early in my academic career, I realized that I could achieve at a satisfactory, if not exceptional, level with only a moderate amount of effort. I knew I was going to college and I knew I’d get a good job, because that was the norm in my community. It’s the kind of attitude that pervades suburban landscapes—a culture of complacent achievement.

I rarely did homework in high school. I missed out on opportunities to take honors and AP classes, but it hardly held me back. At the University of Maryland, I quickly figured out the minimum amount of effort required to earn an A or B in each of my classes. This often resulted in more free time and saved money on books, but there wasn’t much learning going on.

When I finally entered the professional world, I realized that I no longer possessed the ability to motivate myself in a meaningful way. I always fulfilled my responsibilities and even excelled in some cases at ESPN, but something always stopped me from pushing the dial past 90%. I was stuck, and it was depressing. I needed to find something that wouldn’t accept anything but my best. It’s only now that I realize that the something became someone: Maurice. TFA identifies young people with the grit and perseverance to fill a role that no reasonable person would undertake. The reasons for the Achievement Gap are complicated and controversial, but it boils down to environmental factors. My students grow up in communities where education is marginalized and, in some cases, vilified. Due to their hom

e lives, they are self-sufficient from a young age. They teach themselves how to get by in the world, but that doesn’t always include how to get by in school. Maurice lives with his mother, who has a good job and advocates strongly for her son. Early last school year, Maurice’s older brother—who was attending college and hadn’t been in trouble before—began serving a short jail sentence. Gone was the primary male influence in Maurice’s life, just as he was starting at a new school. Maurice was frequently the victim of teasing in class because of his ability and hyperactive behavior, which only caused him to model that combative behavior. If your only images of urban education come from “The Wire” or “Dangerous Minds,” you would be shocked when you enter my classroom. I struggled mightily with classroom management my first year—students ignored directions and disrespected me regularly—but it wasn’t out of control. It was clear that my kids wanted to behave, but they needed me to prove myself first – prove that I was there for the right reasons (I was), and prove that I knew what I was doing (I didn’t). Each day, I was tasked with reaching students like Maurice, usually without knowing what was going on outside the school walls. Students not only entered my classroom well below grade level, but they also came with a range of circumstances that inhibit learning.

The past year has given me a new respect for all teachers, but particularly those who have thrived in a culture of low achievement. It is clear to me now that teachers—in the absence of widespread social change—are the great equalizer. We can blame low achievement on so many different stakeholders: parents, schools, teachers, the students themselves. But this is clear: with a string of great teachers, students can overcome even the worst odds. But being a great teacher in this environment requires a whole lot more than “good enough,” which explains why the gap remains.

My coworkers and I work upwards of 12 hours per day during the week, and another eight on Sunday, creating lessons that will reach all students in a meaningful way. And every minute of that time is valuable to our students and their futures. We are fighting countless factors, often without knowing what they are, and we fail on a regular basis. But there are enough victories to reinforce our belief in the charge.

Teaching requires not only 100% of your time and energy, but also a trace of arrogance. I’m not sure if I’m good or bad at this yet, but I do know I’m irreplaceable. I have impacted 50 lives in a way that is both unique and permanent.

There are no average teachers. There are only good and bad, and my first year more often favored the latter. Maurice did not learn enough in my classroom. I was overwhelmed almost all of the time, and I missed opportunities to help him catch up to his peers. But I also know that I impacted his life in a positive, irreversible way. It’s the kind of learning that can’t be tested but provides me respite when I’m questioning myself. But for now, it’s those failures that motivate me. I am not used to failure —no one in Teach For America is —and I can’t imagine stopping until I’m really good at this, until Maurice gets my absolute best.

Near the end of the year, I gave my students a survey about my class. Almost all of the questions were about me, because while I’m a rookie teacher, I’m a veteran narcissist. One girl in my homeroom suggested that I “quit teaching” immediately, and she wasn’t implying I was overqualified. Another girl in that class thanked me “for being a friend when there were bad people in her life.”

Whenever anyone asks how my first year went, I think about these responses. The reality is that my first year of teaching was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I was challenged at every turn and reminded that any lack of effort was no longer a victimless crime.


I always drink a Red Bull on my Sunday drives. I do this partly due to the laundry list of tasks awaiting me at home, but mostly to accentuate the high I get from thinking about my kids and the week ahead.

Today, I’m thinking about the year ahead: my new management strategy, our classroom theme, and the lyrics to the first music video* we’ll make together. This year will be different, better. I will, once and for all, eliminate “good enough” in favor of “very best”—a culture that will push my students to new levels of achievement.

But at this particular moment, all I can think about is seeing Maurice on the first day, and how, last week, he asked me to DJ his birthday party. Clearly, I’m not getting tired of this.

Names of students have been changed to protect their identities. To view Mr. Dohmann’s classroom music videos, search “gdohmann” on YouTube.

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GREG DOHMANN teaches 6th grade STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math) at Friendship Tech Prep Academy in Anacostia. He was raised in Centreville, VA, and graduated from the University of Maryland in 2008 with a B.A. in Journalism. He is a 2010 Teach For America corps member.