From a Veteran Educator: In Teaching, Every Moment Matters
By Guest Blogger Kerry Rubadue
As a young, recent twenty-something college graduate, I made many mistakes in my first years of teaching. Most of my mistakes thankfully were minor — forgetting a student’s name, leaving teacher materials at home, arriving to class a few minutes late, etc. — and these minor faux pas were easily covered with a little humor and savvy. But one series of mistakes that I made during those early years as a novice teacher taught me that in this noble profession, every moment matters.
As an intervention teacher in a progressive new education program in Ohio, I was assigned a group of students who were identified as needing additional support and also was “on call” during the school day for any and all students who needed support in language arts — in courses ranging from English I to AP Lit, for students in grades 9–12. During any one class period during the day, I regularly had 25+ students clamoring for my help — and each one needed unique support. Good thing I had the energy that youth provides! But that gnarly challenge was surmountable and even forced me to invent some pretty creative ways to spread myself thin while maintaining effectiveness. In short, I felt pretty successful and proud of myself.
On one busy autumn Monday, a high school sophomore named Michael signed into the tutoring room for help behind other students standing at my desk and quietly took a seat in the corner of my room. The other students assertively queried me how long the wait would be and took seats right next to me — not so patiently waiting their turns. Using those aforementioned triage skills, I quickly assessed the collective needs of the waiting mass and addressed the largest group first — hoping to finish with the largest group and clear out the room so that I could address the next group or individuals. Meanwhile, Michael waited by himself in the corner. Soon enough, the bell rang, and I apologized to those who could not access my assistance that period and invited them to return the next day.
This scenario continued the next day and the next day — and at the end of the class period, I asked Michael once again to return the following day. On Thursday, Michael continued to wait quietly in the corner, only to be eclipsed by the louder and more assertive kids in the room. I made a point to promise Michael that the next day, he would be the first one to get my help, even penciling in his name on the top of the next day’s sign-in sheet to solidify my promise to him.
Friday morning started for me like most others — feeling grateful for my lot in life but also being anxious for the rest and recharge that the weekend would bring. Then a fellow teacher stopped into my room with a furrowed brow.
She asked, “Did you hear about Michael?”
I responded, “No, what’s up?”
She looked me in the eye and explained, “We lost Michael last night to suicide. I know that he was getting your help recently and thought you’d want to know.”
As her words hung there, I was overcome with shock and disbelief. My mind raced with thoughts of denial: He was just here in my room this entire week. He is coming in today and I will help him. Then, I clearly recalled his face in my memory, his piercing eyes looking at me with a sadness that I hadn’t recognized earlier. I hadn’t paid enough attention. Why hadn’t I seen his need for immediate help?
I quit teaching after this experience with Michael, truly believing to this day that if I had made room for him in my busy day, Michael might still be alive. It’s hard to say if I copped out or lost complete confidence in myself, but either way, I constantly regret leaving the teaching profession. And even though I am a lost soldier, I hope that teachers who read this blog will go forward in the noblest of professions knowing that every moment you spend — or don’t spend — with students makes immense impact. Sometimes tomorrow doesn’t exist. But if you can find ways to make each interaction with students count, perhaps more students will return to your classrooms tomorrow and every day after.
* For purposes of privacy, student names in this blog have been changed. Kerry Rubadue is now a project manager at McGraw-Hill Education.
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