Back To School: The Unpaid Extra Work Teachers Face No One Talks About
I’m leaning against my dented 2016 minivan in the grocery store parking lot, sipping a half-melted iced latte that’s way too sweet (the barista misread my order for the third time this month), scrolling through my school email a full week before classes start, when it hits me. I already forgot. All the messy, uncompensated stuff that doesn’t make it into the job posting, that doesn’t show up as an extra line on my pay stub, that comes rushing back the second summer vacation ends.
Last year, I got a message from our school counselor the night before the first day. A student I’d had the year before was transferring back into my class, and her family’s apartment had flooded over the break. They were staying with a friend, everything they owned was in storage, and she didn’t have any school supplies, a backpack, or even a jacket for our over-airconditioned classroom. I closed my laptop, changed out of my pajamas, and drove to Target. I walked out with a full set of notebooks, pencils, a pack of hair ties she liked, a hoodie, and a few granola bars that didn’t need refrigeration. The total was $67, charged to my personal debit card. That’s the stuff no one warns you about when you sign your contract.
By the time I finished setting up my classroom last week, I’d already spent three unpaid hours coordinating food allergy accommodations for a kid whose parent couldn’t make the back-to-school meeting, responded to 17 parent messages about first-day drop off, and picked up extra boxes of tissues and hand soap because the district only allots one box of each per class per semester. On the first day this year, a dad pulled me aside before the bell rang, his son hovering behind his leg twisting the strap of his new Minecraft backpack. He said his 9-year-old has severe social anxiety, they put in a request for a 504 plan back in June, but the school psychologist’s waitlist is 8 weeks long because they’re still short two staff members. Could I just check in on him twice a day, and let him leave the room to get a drink whenever he feels overwhelmed? Of course I said yes. But that’s 5 extra minutes a day, 25 extra minutes a week, that I don’t have in my already short 40-minute prep period that I mostly use to run to the bathroom and grab a soda. It’s work I’m not paid for, and it’s work that no one else is going to do if I don’t.
A lot of parents don’t realize how much of this adds up. I’m not writing this just to complain, exactly—most of us knew going in that teaching involved more than the 7.5 hours a day we’re contracted for. But it’s helpful for parents to know the small things they can do to take a little weight off. For example: if your kid’s teacher mentions they keep extra snacks on hand for kids who come to school hungry, don’t just say “let me know if you need anything”. Send a box of granola bars or a pack of fruit cups with your kid the next week. It doesn’t have to be fancy, and it cuts down on how much the teacher has to spend out of pocket. If you need to ask a question or share a concern, don’t send a text at 8pm on a Saturday. Send an email, and add a line that says “no rush to reply until your next work day” — that small cue takes the pressure off to respond on their personal time. If you have extra school supplies your kid didn’t use last year, donate them to the classroom instead of tossing them. Most teachers have a stash for kids who show up without, and every pencil or notebook you donate is one the teacher doesn’t have to buy.
For other teachers, I’ve picked up a few small, low-friction tricks over the years that keep this extra work from draining me. The first is a $20 classroom emergency envelope I set aside at the start of each semester. That’s my hard limit. If an emergency comes up that costs more than $20, I post a quick note in our class’s parent Facebook group asking if anyone has an extra item to donate or can chip in a few dollars. I used to feel guilty asking, but most parents are happy to help — they just don’t know the need is there. The second is I put my hard stop time in my welcome letter on the first day: I don’t respond to non-emergency messages after 4pm, which is when my contract says my work day ends. Ninety-nine percent of parents respect that, and the ones that don’t get a gentle reminder the next time I reply. I used to think saying no made me a bad teacher, but I’ve learned that if I’m burnt out by October, that’s way worse for my kids than if I turn off my phone at 4:15 every day to make dinner for my own kids.
Today, I got another email from the counselor. A new student is joining my class on Wednesday; his family moved here from another state after losing their home to a wildfire, and they’re staying at a local family shelter right now. He doesn’t have any school supplies or a backpack. I checked my emergency envelope after school today, and I have $17 left, so I’ll stop at Walmart on my way home tomorrow to pick up what I can, and post a quick note for parents if I need a little extra.
It’s still extra work I don’t get paid for. The district still hasn’t filled the two open counselor positions, and they still don’t give us enough supply money to cover basic needs. Some days it feels like the pile just gets bigger every year. But for now, this works. It’s not a solution to the bigger, systemic problems, but it’s enough to get through the first month, one kid and one backpack at a time.
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