Am I failing?
The bar in our small town has yet another new owner, and last night was their grand opening. A couple of our musician friends were performing, and though I’m not a fan of crowds (or much of a drinker anymore), I decided to go to support them. My husband is a band photographer, so when he wanders off to do his thing, I usually just hang back, watch the show, nurse a glass of wine, and people-watch.
That’s exactly what I was doing when I saw Jesse, one of my favorite former students.
He didn’t recognize me at first. The last time we were together was ten years (and fifty pounds) ago, and he was much too busy then trying to survive to focus on much of anything else. But now our conversation went something like this:
Jesse: Hi, I’m Jesse. (He introduced himself to me because he had already met my husband…at a music festival at our place last summer, I found out later. There had been hundreds of people all over our property, and, apparently, I just never ran into him.)
Me: I know.
Jesse: You do?
Me: I was your teacher. :)
Jesse: Holy shit! It’s you! Oh my god! (Big hug.)
The last time I saw him, he was in 6th grade. He was standing in the principal’s office, looking lost, with big, fat tears streaming down his face. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t the one responsible for his pain, but that didn’t make either one of us feel better. Though he didn’t know it, I most certainly had been the catalyst for those tears. As a teacher, I’m a mandated reporter, and I’m required to notify the authorities when I see signs of neglect or abuse. So, I had, and an investigation had been done, and DCFS was coming to take him away. Jesse would be removed from his home, and placed in foster care. Way to go, me. Not.
An investigation had been done, and DCFS was coming to take him away.
Later in the evening , Jesse came up and hugged me again. (It seems he’s grown up to be a hugger, and quite fond of the s-word.)
Jesse: I just want you to know I learned a lot from you.
Me: Thank you. (I’m smiling, but I’m sure my face said, “Yeah, right.”)
Jesse: I mean it! I’m not shitting you! You taught me a lot!
Me: Thank you! :)
Jesse: No, really. Remember when you sat next to me, and helped me, and told me I could learn?
Me: Oh, I remember.
Jesse: I will never forget that. And I want you to know how much I appreciate what you did.
Me: And I appreciate you saying so.
And then he smiled that same adorable smile, the one that had haunted me for so many years (when I allowed myself to even think about him at all). He may not have known I was the one responsible for making that call, but that hadn’t freed me from my guilt. But that smile? Cue the tears.
Remember when you sat next to me, and helped me, and told me I could learn?
On our way home, I relayed the conversation to my husband. He used to have a coffee/photography shop in town, and has mentioned having similar conversations with my kids before. So when I told him what Jesse had said, he just smiled and said, “ You always taught the ones who needed it most.”
“ You always taught the ones who needed it most.”
But here’s the thing. Jesse DIDN’T learn. Like many of my students with attention/emotional problems (as well as learning disabilities), he made no measurable academic progress the entire time I was his teacher. His busy mind was always spinning, his thoughts hijacked by a life he couldn’t control.
After a long pause, I finally voiced this concern to my husband, and he replied, “You taught them you cared. You taught them about respect.”
So, here it is, the main reason I don’t want to use my real name on here. Sometimes, I feel like a fraud. My kids love me, their parents love me, even my administration loves me, but (no matter how engaging my lessons are) my kids don’t retain crap when it comes to the subject matter. I know my husband is right, and I love that I reach them, that they know I respect them, but is that really enough?
