What I learned at school today...

I am a teacher, which for me means that every day is hard, some days I hate my job, some days I don’t dislike my job as much, but no day is like the one before it. Today was no exception.

Everyone at one point or another has heard a “teacher” story – either in a movie or from a friend or family member who is an educator. The truth is, though, teaching is a service-oriented profession like many, many others. There is a constant potential for impact on young lives, whether positive or negative, and maybe – just maybe – if you’re a teacher, you might get the opportunity to have a significant positive influence on a young person that he will carry into the rest of his life. That all being said, and all being wonderful, what doesn’t get spoken of enough is how impactful the lives of young people can be on those of us who endeavor to teach them.

I teach French in a high school where a culture of poverty looms but where there is plenty of room to succeed. My students come from wildly diverse socioeconomic backgrounds – from working class to destitute and everything in-between – but once they’re in my classroom, they’re all the same. Just kids trying to make it. Now, that means a lot of different things for each of them, but at the end of the day, they’re still just kids. It’s easy to forget that sometimes when confronted with the knowledge of the burdens and responsibilities that some of them bear daily. One of my students today reminded me of that in the most heart breaking way.

We’ll call him Darrin.

Darrin was absent from my class on Thursday, so when he returned today (after having the Good Friday holiday off of school), I asked him for his admit slip. He told me he hadn’t gotten one from his first period teacher, however, and instead handed me a small booklet with a photo on the cover and “In Memoriam” written across the bottom. Saturday, April 23, 2011 was the date of the memorial service for which this commemorative program was printed.

“But Darrin, you were absent on Thursday. This service was on Saturday…”

His concise reply: “I know, but I had to get clothes and things like that to wear.”

I was really curious to know why he wasn’t forthcoming with information to help me understand why he had been absent on Thursday when this service for his loved one had not taken place until two days later.

“Darrin, do you have a note from home or something that explains more why you were out on Thursday?”

“No, Mrs. P. I don’t have a note. Just this.”

Well, here I am confronted not with a dilemma – the kid was out on Thursday, no big deal – but with several questions. This particular student is very dear to my heart. He’s not an A student, – hell, he’s not even a C student most of the time – he doesn’t always do exactly what he’s supposed to do, he plays around a little too much sometimes because he doesn’t really love school, he doesn’t do his homework, and a he does struggle with anger from time to time. But there is something very genuinely good about Darrin. He is always respectful toward me, always polite. Sometimes he just pops his head into my classroom to say hello in between classes, and he always tells me he missed me after I had been absent. He’s a good boy with some normal teenage struggles – and some more challenging life difficulties.

So I opened the booklet to read a little about this person who had passed. She had been a civil servant working in the juvenile court system who had raised a few children of her own and had made the decision long ago to become a foster parent and adopt several more. She had grandchildren as well as great-grandchildren, and a large extended family.  Seemed like a very decent, respectable lady, but I still didn’t know who she was.

I looked up to speak to Darrin again, who had already started roaming around the room chit-chatting in lieu of doing his assignment, so I called him over.

“Darrin, who is this woman to you?” should have been the first question I asked but was prevented by my confusion about the facts surrounding his absence. He replied, “My mother.”

His mother. All I could muster was, “This woman,” pointing to the picture, “right here… is your mother?” He nodded.

It was all I could do to just remain in control of my emotions and say what needed to be said. “Darrin, honey, are you ok? Why are you in school today?” He said to me, “I dunno Mrs. P. I have to go to school I guess.”

Wow. That was all that came to my mind. Just, wow. I took a breath.

“Darrin, I know you must miss her…” were the gently offered empty words that came out of my mouth next. “I do miss her, Mrs. P. I’m thinking about her all the time,” which I knew was certainly true. How could it not be? This woman had adopted him. She loved him, and he loved her, too. And now his world was upside down because she was gone. There was nothing I could really say to change that for him – no super teacher powers, no magic. Just impotent, fragile me.

“Ok, well I tell you what. I’m going to write you an admit slip and make a special note on it so your teachers will know that your absence was excused, alright? And Darrin…,” I took another breath, “I know you seem to be alright right now, but it’s ok to miss her and it’s ok to feel sad, so if you need to talk about this anytime, you can come talk to me, ok?”

This young man, who had just had a chapter from the book of his life abruptly ended, who was now facing another, completely different chapter, who must have been scared yet stood before me as a pillar of strength, paused. Then he looked at me with tearless eyes and said, “Thank you, Mrs. P,” and he held his gaze for just long enough to break my heart again.

Darrin went back to his desk – or, not to his desk but to the other side of the room where there was something more interesting going on than the French assignment he was supposed to be doing – and started talking to a pretty young girl in our class. And I went back to my thoughts.

We pop in and out of each other’s lives for all kinds of reasons I’m sure. But at the end of all of this, I have no great insight to offer, no proud exclamation of how wonderful being a teacher can be. All I have is a subtle truth told through the eyes and very few words of a young man who just lost his mother. I had an opportunity to be in his life right now, at this exact moment. And he taught me something that somewhere deep down I already knew. He taught me that tragedy happens and life goes on – even for kids. But more importantly, that I can’t fix it. I'm not even supposed to. I’m as frail and as powerless as they are, as we all are. And his dry eyes told me, “It’s ok to not be ok… and still go on.”