My class didn’t come easy for you. I’m not sure much of school did. When you reached for the answer to a question in class, it looked like someone reaching for tweezers dropped between the car console and driver’s seat cushion.
Same look during any test.
But every day after school, I’d hear your fluorescent nails rap at my door and your whisper, “Excuse me, I need help.”
As we reviewed the test, you scrunched lips into pale crevices, pinched fingers to hair strands and twisted, twisted, twisted toward the right solution. After heavy sighing and breathing you’d spit out, “It’s probably wrong, but I think…” and in the form of a limp question, you’d deliver the correct answer. I’d wink and nod, but you always looked at me as if waiting for my palm to slam your cheek, and for me to holler, “Fooled ya, Dummy!”
School has never been easy for my son, too. He struggles to focus, struggles to sit still. He rushes through questions and worksheets. He fidgets. Takes a lot of bathroom breaks. One break led him to unplugging the school drinking fountains. Not out of spite. Not in the pursuit of trouble-making. My son was simply curious as to how they functioned. My son is silly, kind, and inquisitive. He’s a lot like you. And–a lot like you–he started to hit some real academic strides in 2020. He found academic success in the classroom and with it came confidence. His teacher even said so.
That is until March of the very same year.
Just like you, too.
I scolded my son for not trying in his new, virtual classes. His teacher emailed to say he disappeared from Zoom every time it became his turn to present. My son claimed he needed the toilet. I claimed that was an excuse.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Why not? You love to participate. Your teachers tell me.”
“I don’t want to!” he stomped. And like that, my little boy’s chin started to quiver and his breathing quaked. “It’s just too hard!” he howled. My mouth opened, but no words came out. What could I say? I couldn’t get any of my high school students to talk through Zoom, either. My students didn’t even turn on their cameras.
I held my son by the shoulders, “Look. You can make mistakes. That’s ok. But not trying? Won’t work, buddy.” I thought of you in that moment, tapping your wild nails and questions at my classroom door. “I’m going to tell you a little teacher-secret.” My son looked at me with doe-like eyes. “Our favorite students are not always the smartest ones.” He gasped. Shook his head. “It’s true. Our favorite students are the ones who don’t give up. The ones who try the hardest.” He nodded and gazed out the window for a bit. Then asked to play Minecraft with friends.
I can bet no math teacher in the world claims me as a favorite. I didn’t do too well in math; still don’t understand it. In school, I chose the back corner seat, cowered behind a wall of frizz, and darted hostility whenever the teacher neared. To avoid being called on, I pretended to take detailed notes, but really scribbled in my diary. My math grade caused long parental arguments won–not by me–with the question, “Did you ask for help?” (Answer: no).
I happen to approach writing similarly. In high school, a teacher once scrawled Try a creative writing class in college at the bottom of an essay . So I did. The college professor was attractive with sandy, wavy hair and a very large, ornate belt buckle. He started every class by arranging us in a circle around him. Then, while mindlessly fingering that belt buckle, he read his own poetry. He never did that with our poems. I can’t recall any of our poems being shared. He graded each one, though. Every poem came back ravaged by a red pen.
I took it as my sign to quit.
You are no stranger to scarlet letters and extra help. I taught you in class. I graded your work. But unlike me, you never quit. You wouldn’t give up. You always asked for help. The last time we met after school, you reached so hard for the answer our heads practically touched. Once you delivered it, we both released a breath. You piped up, “I’ve been listening to podcasts about this stuff while I work out. I think it helps!” I blinked, grinned, produced no words. I thought of you later that night as I moved my running shoes from the back of one closet into another.
Working out and studying at the same time. Damn. That kid is incredible.
I planned to tell you this the next time you stayed after class. But I received instructions to pack up my things on that Friday in March. You received instructions to log into Zoom from home. In the beginning you did. Every day. You attended my virtual office hours, too. But it became harder and harder for you. In the classroom, you always raised your hand with the ceremony of a half-mast flag to volunteer answers. You’d expel air through pursed lips if correct. But if it not, you’d inquire further with solemn nodding.
In March of 2020, you attempted a few answers on Zoom. But then became quiet and gave a few answers in the chat instead. Then you turned into a silent, black box. Then you stopped logging in.
I tried emailing when you disappeared. I sent a few invitations for a virtual appointment. You never responded. I didn’t hear back from you until the following August. “The pandemic was tough”, you wrote. You had to add extra hours at the local convenient store to help your family out. You ended the email with, “Sorry I failed. It got too hard.”
I felt the same way at the very first virtual parent/teacher conferences for my own children. My daughter had a wildly successful kindergarten year despite it ending early in March of 2020. Then the new year started with schools still in remote learning. Her first grade teacher told a different story. One of despondency. One of a child who put her head down in front of the camera and doodled an endless spiral. I nodded. Understood.
I struggled to engage my own students virtually. I knew how it felt.
We moved on to my son’s conference. His teacher described a once vibrant, goofy kid who cracked everyone up as disengaged, disconnected, discouraged. One who disappeared when called on. One who turned in no work. I nodded again.
“Yes, we see this at home, too…
But we are both working parents…
No, we don’t have family to help…
No, we don’t have other options…
We looked into that; it’s too expensive…”
And this is where my chin began to quiver. I began to push air rhythmically through pursed lips because I didn’t feel tears forming, I felt a guttural crowning of despair. A violent shaking I couldn’t stop.
“It’s just too hard!” I howled.
And then I wept. I sobbed at my child’s virtual parent/teacher conference. I finally caught my breath, wiped my eyes with my sleeve and–full of embarrassment–peered back at the screen, “Please tell me I’m not the first parent to cry,” I muttered.
“You are the first to cry,” she said. “But from teacher to teacher, it is too hard.”
****
On the eve of my first ever Zoom class in March of 2020, I asked myself, How do I teach a lesson when we’ve just entered a global crisis? So I didn’t. Instead, I wrote an essay about a tub of cheeseballs bought to host a party that would no longer happen. Two days into quarantine I made a horrific discovery. The entire tub had been consumed.
By me only.
I started that very first virtual class by saying, “I don’t feel right diving back into our work as if nothing happened. A lot happened. I wrote about it.” Then I did something I hadn’t done since Buckle-Stroke assaulted my poetry.
I shared.
You said something to me in your email that following August. Dropped somewhere in the middle of apologies. “You should write. Your story saved me during quarantine.” I reread that sentence with distrust, expecting the next line to slap, “Dummy! Fooled ya!” I read it again and flashed to my high school teacher scribbling Try a class and then Buckle-Stroke licking lips to his own poetry. I thought about your after school visits, and about your last project in the classroom. The one where you wrote next to your name, “This project is Prada, baby.” And it was. You did it.
But then everything shut down. Everything fell apart.
I thought of you when the words, “It’s just too hard” poured from my gut at a virtual parent/teacher conference. I felt I failed you. Failed my students. Failed my own children. I thought of my son in his bedroom, listening to a teacher unable to reach him while he rolled himself up in a blanket, layer by layer, to stare at the ceiling in the same way my daughter put her head down in front of a screen to grind endless circles in caked-black crayon. I thought of you, unable to listen to podcasts while you stocked two liter soda bottles to a shelf at the local Walgreens.
Then I thought of you weeks later when I heard the words, “You’re not going to like this.” That night I dug my shoes out of the closet, put on headphones, and went running.
So if these words ever makes it into your hands, I need you to know. You did not give up. You did not fail. You are my inspiration. You are my reason. YOU are the one who taught me the meaning of grit, fortitude, and courage.
And you were right. I needed to write.
I dedicate this to you, my student.
love,
a teacher
No Real Balance 