Teaching is a series
of vignettes that shape not only who we are as teachers, but, more importantly,
who we are as people.
1. Micheon
She was one of my favorite students. She
aced my AP English class in eleventh grade, and was scheduled to be in my
twelfth grade class the next. She didn’t
come to school until December. She had
no hair—her cancer had come back and was eating away at her brain. But, she wanted to see her friends one last
time. I am convinced she knew the end
was near, and she was trying to come to grips with the end of her life and to
say goodbye to the people she loved.
She sat in my class
Thursday, not strong enough to walk, let alone walk from class to class or
tackle the stairs. She wanted to go
home, but her mother was still at work.
Throwing up in a trashcan, she needed to lie down. I carried her out to my car, buckled her in
and drove her home. When we got to her
house, we sat in my car. Snow coated the
ground. Bundled against the cold, we sat
in the car in the heater’s blast.
We talked about the
life she might have had, the boys she might have dated, and the babies she
would never get a chance to love. After
every sentence labored through a sea of nausea, after every hollow laugh her
eyes could not echo, there was spit: thick like love that doesn’t know how to
die, medicinal like something kept a brown bottle under the sink, the spoon a
cold razor on the teeth, bitter as birthdays unremembered and years unable to
be spent. She wet countless tissues she
kept in her coat pockets.
“I’m always cold,” she
said.
We talked of her
sister, two years younger and a major pain in the you-know-what; they fought
because she didn’t understand why her sister was getting all Mommy’s attention--well
she knew, but it still wasn’t fair. She
never mentioned her father who left before she needed air. We talked about her mother and her
frustration: five years of this had worn her love thin like the sole of an old
shoe. What had protected her without
thought now failed in the face of pain, and the sharpness of rain, and the
puddles and puddles and puddles of spit.
We didn’t talk about it.
We talked about the
class we shared—the single year of normality in her teenage life. The only date she’d been on. Told by her mother in the theatre parking lot,
“Remember, don’t get too attached.”
We sat in the car
until the cold winter crept in through the seams. She didn’t want to say goodbye; she knew
there’d never be another hello.
“I guess i should let
you go,” she said opening her door with a smile forced like play-doh through
her loosened teeth. She coughed spat
into a tissue and waited. I carried her
into her house, set her down on the couch with a spit bucket and a blanket, but
not before hugging her bones a final time. I sat next to her and we watched
cartoons for an hour: a cat, a mouse, a sponge, a sailor.
I held her sticks in
my hand, only letting go when the spit got too thick, too bitter, like cold
maple syrup, like a 9-volt battery on the tongue.
Her mom came home. I left.
She turned into a white box filled with satin and bones.
2. Latrell
Our students often
struggle with their sexual identity, and for a trans kid in an urban
environment, this is a problem.
Transitioning is difficult—I can only imagine—but transitioning in a
high school culture where the words gay
and fag can be heard every day, it
must be almost impossible. Latrell did
it the only way he felt he could—all at once.
He got his nails done,
got weave, got dangly earrings, and heels.
And fake breasts. Some of the staff
and the students laughed and shook their heads.
He didn’t get beaten, but hate cannoned
like fireworks in the
hall.
I didn’t notice him at
first, didn’t recognize the ram in ewe’s clothing. And, when I did, I didn’t care.
“It makes me sick,” Ms.
Jackson venomed into the staff room air.
“He’s only doing it for attention.”
I couldn’t be silent. “Teenagers and birds have two purposes for
their garments,” I said. “Either they
quail themselves into the background, a camouflaged blindfold, avoiding their
peers’ damnation—I am
scenery, I am grass, I am shadow. Or, they
dandify themselves tail feathers and plume, miniskirts and hairdos, peacocking
the world’s eyes. ‘Hey! Look at me! I am cardinal, I am macaw, I am paradise.’
“So the boy who no
longer feels like a boy, and the girl with chain-dragging jeans are not special—they
are Mohawk, they are sag, they are tattoo.
They are as normal as the quiet girl
in the library with
twilight in her eyes, or the boy in the bleachers during recess, hands without
balls in his lap.”
3. Dominique
A number—24—of my
students over the past years have been in trouble with the law. Some of them are still incarcerated—one for
life—and some are on probation. All of
them have a story, and few of them ever get the chance to tell that story. Most of them hate anything that stinks of
authority, which feels like the Man is once again coming down on them. School, for them, is just another form of
prison. Dominique was one of those
students. He came to school only because
if he didn’t, he would go back to jail.
His probation officer took him out of class one day a week, and when
Dominique was in class, I had the hardest time getting him to see the value of
learning how to write.
Dominique didn’t like
writing in the journal I gave him. He
was a lefty, and the wiry spiral bit into his wrist like handcuffs, a feeling
that was all too familiar. He never wore
shorts, even in August when the inequities of school financing burn the
brightest. Dominique sat sweating in his
sagging jeans. A ten cent spiral notebook
and a fifteen cent pen on his wobbly desk.
His permanently ink-stained hands propping up his armpits. Dominique thought he had nothing to write
about and figured that the wolverine in his face said everything that needed
saying.
In first grade, Ms. Ward
smothered his first words in blood, red marks and tsks on his story about a boy
who turned into asphalt, so he could hide in the streets. He wanted to take his story home to his
mother, but he didn’t want the blood to become real. Even at six, Dominique knew to never give the
belt a reason to viper out of
his mother’s pants.
Dominique thought
writing was for fools and the crossbones tattooed on his eyes should be enough to
show he ain’t no fool—nothing like the one Mr. Pierce called out in front of
the class. He intercepted a passed note and
then read it out loud. “‘Hey Kayla,’
mock drooling out his tone ‘I was wondering if you want to go to the movies
this weekend cuz i kinda like you yer cute.
Dominique.’” The Greek chorus in
the back of the room chanted “Dominique loves Kayla! Dominique loves
Kayla!” She might have said yes; she
might have been the one. But, she turned
her eyes to tears and sniffled him out of her life. Dominique’s knew his heart would have flamed
red if it wasn’t already burnt black like rubber stains on the asphalt’s skin.
Dominique thought
writing was for wussies, and his ankle bracelet and four babies
testament to his
manhood. Officer Hohl stood vulture behind
Dominique’s back as he sat handcuffed to the table writing his confession—his
two friends’ names ratting out from his pen.
Now they were in the
pen, and he was walking around with new jewelry. Dominique knew chains and bars devour a man’s
wallet, and the asphalt and diapers are hungry
I stood and walked
over to Dominique, put my good pen in his left hand, turned his notebook over, and
said, “Write upside-down then.”
“About what?” he asked.
“Write about why you
don’t like to write.”
He snorted and as I
turned and walked back to my chair, I heard his pen start to talk.
Then it started to
sing.
4. Four
The worst part of
teaching is when a student dies. We, as
teachers, invest so much of our hearts into them, that when they die, something
breaks inside of us. It is not the pain
a parent feels—I can only imagine—when they lose a child, but it is pain
nonetheless. It is as if we are watching
the sparks we lit get snuffed out one by one before they have a chance to burn
bright.
I don’t like this. I don’t like writing about death. It doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.
Four of my former
students have died this year: one stabbed--he died in the emergency room, doctors
berating his unbeating heart—one had cancer (I don’t know which is worse: genes
and luck, or sharpened steel anger). I
didn’t like either of them. They were
not good students, friends, advisees, or sons.
They passed my class, but now they have passed. Died.
Dead. One died alone in the
sanitized stink of a hotel room, and one drowned yesterday. He was one of the good ones—a smile he never
lost, and a heart big enough for all of us.
And, I see my children,
I see all my students in their place: laid down, folded into satin, a lace
pillow for their quiet head, their eyes and mouth sewn shut, dressed in their decomposing
clothes.
It is not supposed to
be this way, not like this. They are
supposed to be peeking their heads into my classroom while they are home on
break from college. They should arrive Army
strong, Marine high and tight. They
should be bringing in their kids to meet me and talking about their career. They are supposed to be: teachers, poets, parents,
and friends. They are not supposed to be
dead.
There have been nine: 3
shot, 1 AIDS, 2 cancer, 1 overdose, 1 stabbed, and one drowned yesterday.
This is what makes
teaching a heartbreaking career. It is
not the kids who don’t care and their parents who have given up. It is not the lack of respect from the
government, the media, and the politicians.
It is not trying to teach a generation that is instant—information not something
to learn but to look up. A generation
that is self-sighted and near-absorbed.
A generation that has been given everything and been asked for nothing. It is not the standardized tests and the
corporations that profit off failure. Or,
the mandates, or the lack of support and supplies. It is not the kids who can’t read because
they have never been read to--houses barren of books. It is not even being forced to work with the
rare teacher who doesn’t care.
It is this: walking
into the office at 7:13 in the morning, coffee in hand, bag over my shoulder, and
a plan for the day—copies, grades, lessons, work—only to be met with tears and,
“Have you heard the news?” And, a steel
casket gravities my chest. Hugs replace
handshakes, and a pall of sighs stalks the halls.
The teachers who care,
care. We care for your children, listen
to them, talk to them, advise them, feed them, teach them, love them, and when
we lose them, when they die, all that knowledge and all that love we gave them comes
snapping back—a cut string we attached to the future trying to change the world
one student at a time.
Nine of my former
students have died: 3 shot, 1 AIDS, 2 cancer, 1 overdose, 1 stabbed, and one drowned
yesterday. Trub, Robert, Chris, Michael,
Micheon, Amy, Anthony, Julius, and Kwesi—he drowned yesterday. His heart was not big enough. His smile lost beneath the waves.
5. Terrence
I have failed many
students in my teaching career. I don’t
enjoy it, but sometimes they do not do enough work, or I don’t have enough
evidence, or I can’t convince them to read a book or write an essay, and I am
forced to put an ‘F’ on their report card.
Occasionally, but rarely thankfully, this stops a student from
graduating on time. This is not a pleasant
experience. Two or three times, a
student I failed has either come back to school or contacted me.
A student I had five
years ago sent me a text Friday night at eleven thirteen. He failed my class, but I failed him—didn’t
reach through his matchhead eyes or his street smirk to help him to see
the importance of
language. I talked to his older sister
once or twice, but her name was Pearlie and he was a bit of sand stuck in her
craw. Trouble. A nuisance.
She’d insulated herself against his insolence for years until the shell
she hid him in kept her care locked in a cell, which, as she told me several
times, during our two short conversations, was where his butt was going to end
up.
According to the text
I read—sipping my coffee on a Saturday morning—neither his but nor any other
part of him wound up locked up like so many of my former students, busted for
getting by in a world that left them behind.
He wrote: “Thank you
for all the things you taught me in your class my senior year. Even 4 the things you taught me unknowingly.”
And, I remembered Ms. Strickland,
who dressed as a witch on Halloween. She
gave me The Hobbit. She said i might find it interesting. I hadn’t found anything worth staying up all
night for before, but Bilbo’s book pitched the flashlight tent on my bed and
kept me reading until the batteries died—and I haven’t stopped since. Or, Ms. Brendel, who every Friday let a
different student choose the music for journal time and never flinched through the
profanity in my favorite song even
though it was the longest minute of my life.
She read my journal and told me she loved it, especially the parts she
couldn’t read. My scrunched up hand
scribbling its way past red lines hasn’t stopped since.
And, I realized: the
curriculum, the lessons, the books, the essays, none of those matter. The throwaway compliments, the insignificant
smiles, the careless questions, the meaningless gifts—this is where teachers change
the world and give their students hope that someone cares enough about them to
try.
Terrance thought I
didn’t remember him, but I know the name of every kid I’ve stopped from getting
a diploma. I know the name of every
student I’ve failed. His words give me
hope that for some of them I gave them enough so they could do more than get by,
even if I didn’t know it.
6. Shawna
Standardized tests
measure how well a student takes standardized tests. I have taught 4.0 students—good writers,
readers, and thinkers—who have not been able to get into the twenties on the
ACT. I have taught and tutored students
who have not passed the graduation test for my state. They do not get walk across the stage with
their friends. The decision of whether
they are worthy to graduate has been taken out of the hands of the
professionals in the building and given to corporations and their testing products. And now, standardized tests and my students’
scores on them will determine my evaluation score.
One of my students, in
particular, had difficulty with the Math test, which eventually turned her into
a non-graduate. The final time she took
the test in March of her senior year, I could see her anxiety and her struggle
written on her face and in her white-knuckled grip on her #2 pencil.
Shawna asked me, as I
pulled the pencil out her cramping hand, if I wanted her to fail. She, in the allotted time, had answered under
half of the forty five questions on the test she needed to graduate. She won’t.
She is eighteen, a senior, impoverished, and impregnated.
This was the fifth
time she had tried to figure out which one was the sphere and which one looked
like a can--concepts that don’t confuse my nine year-old silence this girl’s
pencil—which now spires out my fist like a yellow shank. “Do you want to make me fail?” she asked
again, as I picked up her test booklet and answer document.
I felt obliged to
apologize, but the sorry butted up against the back of my front teeth I chewed on
the seventeen thousand hours of her public schooling that had been compacted
down into a two and a half hour test ,as I alphabetized her future.
7. Me
My profession, my
students, my school, my district, and even I, are being quantified. We have all become numbers. Value-added, standardized test scores,
adequate yearly progress, state report cards, and my teacher evaluation score
(based partially on my students’ standardized test scores). This is education in 21st
century America. We are ensnared in the
age of data and numbers. If it cannot be
quantified, it is not important.
I became a teacher,
not when I learned how to analyze test strands or to examine trend data, but
when I learned that the most important aspect of teaching is the relationships
we build with our students. They may
never read another classic piece of world literature in their lives; they may
never graph a function or balance an equation; they may never read The Federalist Papers or march in
another band; but, they will have to live peacefully with the people in the
world around them. They learn how to do
this from their parents and their teachers. And, as long as I treat my students with
respect, compassion, empathy, and love, they will leave my charge better people
(I hope). As long as I don’t objectify
them, turn them into numbers, and pigeonhole them based on those numbers, I
have a chance to help them.
Being a teacher is not
like being a cook or an accountant. It
is not even like being a nurse or a doctor.
Being a teacher is the most unique profession in the world. No other career affords you the opportunity
to be in another person’s life day after day after day. Nine months.
One hour a day. I spend more time
with my students during the school year than their parents probably do. I have the chance to change the world, or at the very least, the chance to help my students to become better people.