What Matters

I met a new student today. I knew he was coming to class, but in the jumble of sick days, projects being due, a dozen ninth graders crowding around my desk to ask questions about this or that, I forgot that he was arriving today. In fact, I completely forgot until about ten minutes into class when I looked up, noticed a very sweet, happy face looking at me, and made eye contact with my new little stranger.

                “Hello!” I hollered above the din that inevitably exists during the last class of the day on a Friday in December.

                “Hello!” he responded pleasantly. I asked him what he preferred to be called (Greek names are often shortened to be a little more manageable).  Then it was back to trying to keep the chaos of thirty ninth-graders down to a dull roar.

                After class, I asked him to chat with me for a little while about what he had covered so far in his ninth-grade English course in the U.S.  We talked about his previous curriculum, and then I inquisitively embarked on a series of personal questions. Why had his family left the U.S.? What business was the family going to run in Greece? Did he have siblings? Did he speak Greek? Were they going back to America for Christmas?

                We had a very pleasant conversation, and he eventually departed. I think he’ll be a very nice student to have in class.

                It strikes me sometimes that perhaps these sort of off-handed non-academic moments are some of the most important parts of teaching. It’s the moments when I ask the personal stuff—and when I share it—that really matter. That’s not a new insight into teaching: we’ve all been told that relationships are the key to good pedagogy. But right now, it’s December, nobody’s taking very much in, children are dazed with the promise of a break to come, teachers are exhausted, and academic learning of any kind is—at best—a bit subpar.

But I think I’m going to be okay with that this year. Because I can still ask personal questions, offer amusing stories from my life, share my hopes and fears, encourage the fatigued, and kindly “redirect the behaviorally-challenged” (that last bit was all politically correct phraseology. But you knew that).  Being a good teacher doesn’t stop because of collective fried-brain syndrome.

 In the middle of today’s last block, as I was waiting for the umpteenth time for the kids to be quiet so I could finish telling the story of Oedipus, one young lady said to me, “You have so much patience!”

Now—honestly—I’m not always the most patient person in the world, but what she said reminds me of what I can still teach my December-temporarily-ate-my-intellectual-ability students: I can show them how to be a good human being by simply being kind. I can show them how to care by being caring. I can be funny—because life is pretty much always funny. I can love them.

And that’s what really matters.