All first year teachers struggle, regardless of their background. Teaching involves a steep learning curve and much more so in an urban environment. The highs are amazing but the lows are overwhelming. The story below was written by a good friend of mine who also happens to be a first year teacher on her blog Unconditional Hope and Unarmed Truth and offers such an unbarred window into what she’s going through as a first year teacher that I wanted to reshare it here.
From Unconditional Hope and Unarmed Truth: Apparently making it through your first semester without crying at school or in front of the kids is a little victory. So, naturally I took pride in the fact that the anarchy or stress of the last four months had never overcome me to the extent of crying at school. I made it. I never expected that the first day I would cry would be the last day of the semester, alone, behind school watching a tall seventh grade boy look over his shoulder as he quickly walked across the soccer field toward home.
I first met him a month into school when a he was a new student who showed up in line for my sixth period class. Already the craziest period of my day, I instantly knew he wasn’t going to help the situation. Nearly six feet tall, he had the face of someone who had experienced much more of life than any 7th grader should and walked as if he always had something to hide. He never said much for the next two months and it was as much as I could do just to get him to keep his head up during class. Finally, his unwillingness to participate or follow instructions landed him in detention. Every student that I hold for detention has to finish their duty by having a conversation with me in which we discuss the implications of their behavior. But with him, all I asked was what he wanted to be, he said a leader. Since that moment, he has changed my life.
I remember days where I literally had to turn to hide my huge smile in class just to see him sit up straight and raise his hand. The semester was hard though, my sixth period is full of at least three students who other teachers refer to as my “little thugs.” Their slit eyebrows, dyed hair, and hand signals revealed that they were likely in a gang and school seemed to be their last priority. They rarely contributed to class or completed their work but for some reason, my heart continued to be filled with love for them, especially the tall one. One day after school he asked if he could stay for detention. I reminded him that he wasn’t in trouble and didn’t have to go to detention but he asked if he could still come up to my room and maybe “do make up work.” Thrilled he wanted to concentrate on work, I started to bring him back to the class but was stopped by the school counselor, warning me that the only reason he hadn’t left was the group of boys waiting outside to beat him up. Since then, he has asked multiple times to stay for the same reason.
Each time he stays, I try to remind him of one important truth: Each decision he makes now will have implications for the future. I tell him that he can be anything he wants to be, specifically an FBI agent, but that he has to decide now if he will follow his dream or let something else drag him away. I took every chance I could to tell him I was proud of him. Last week, after winding up in detention again, he asked, “Ms. Burnett, can I tell you something?” Through quiet and often shaky words, he explained how he had thought that he wanted to be in a gang and had begun the process of being initiated. “But,” he told me “I decided I don’t want to be in a gang,” a comment that immediately made my heart jump only to be followed by a drop. He said they’re looking for him now. They want him to come back and they try to find him after school. I realized there was absolutely nothing I could do that would stop them. I hated that at fourteen years old, a misguided judgment about what he wanted was followed with such terrifying to consequences. All I knew to say was, “You made the right choice. I am so proud of you. And you’re going to have to keep making that choice every day.” I reminded him that he could be anything but he would have to keep choosing correctly. It was a little victory that I will never ever forget.
Then, this week he made a wrong decision. On Monday, he reported to me that he had been suspended for fighting a boy in the bathroom. I looked at him and told him that he had made the wrong choice, that he showed strength when he chose to avoid fights, that I expected more of him and I would see him on Friday. This morning, I saw him again. His eyes told me something was wrong. I assumed and asked if it was that his mom was disappointed he had been suspended. He said “no” but not much else so I let him go to class. A little later, I saw him again in the hall and he began to walk next to me. He asked the now familiar question “Ms. Burnett can I stay with you today after school?” I turned to him and asked what had happened. He said the boy that he fought in the bathroom had told his dad. ‘Of course he did,’ I thought. ‘I’m sure my dad would know if I got in a fight at school too.’ He said, “He told his uncles too.” I started to understand. I asked, “Is his dad in a gang?” He nodded yes and explained that the school police officer had told him they were coming up to the school looking for him the last couple of days. He said they were heavily involved in a gang and “would do anything.” My heart broke. All I wanted to do was put him in his car and take him home, or take him far away, maybe to a small ski town in Colorado where kids are worried about how much powder we’ll get for Christmas, not whether or not they’ll make it home from school.
As I was talking to him another 7th grade teacher walked by. “You’ve been on him all day haven’t you Ms. Burnett?” “I care about him a lot and I need him to do better,” I explained. She reminded me, “You know he failed this semester… he’s on all of our failing lists.” I knew that but I hated that she talked to me like he wasn’t standing right next to me. I turned to him and asked why, if school was too hard or he didn’t understand. He said he’s always thinking. He said in every class he can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to him after school and for the second time that day my heart fell. How could he be expected to care about math when there were grown gang members outside waiting to beat him up?
I told him I would talk to the officer and try to figure out what we should do. I dropped him off at his next class and turned back to my room with tears in my eyes. The administrator said I could keep him in my room after school but he said “Ms. Burnett, he’s messing with grown men. Don’t let him endanger you.” As much as I wanted to let him stay in my class or drive him home in my car, I knew the risk was too high for it be wise. So after talking to the school police, we decided it would be best if he just left immediately from school to walk straight home. When the bell rang and he appeared in my class after school, I handed him two papers. One had my phone number on it. I instructed him to call me as soon as he got home. The other was a card I had written him. Inside it were the words, “I wonder if you will ever know how much I thank God that he gave me the honor or knowing you and being your teacher. I will forever think of you as a strong, courageous, and wise leader who will change the world. I know that because you’ve already changed my life. I pray often that God would keep you safe and remind you that you are valuable and important. Never forget that I believe in you and am proud of you. – Ms. Burnett” I told him to open the card when he got home and not to forget to call me.
As we walked quickly outside, we both looked around for signs of danger. I reminded him one more time how proud of him I was and then watched as he took off across the soccer field. That was the first moment I really cried at school. He walked quickly, constantly looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t looking at me, he was looking to see if anyone was following him. I hate that he had to do that. I wanted him to be able to play on that field and enjoy being a young teenager. I wanted him to be excited for Christmas and to be filled with the wonder and joy of the season. But all that he or I cared about in that moment was that no one saw him walk across that field and that he could make it home safely.
In the same moment as I watched him tearfully and prayerfully, a little head popped up behind me giggling. I hugged her. There are two sisters that I have come to love like crazy. They spend almost every day after school in my classroom working on homework, hearing me lecture them on life lessons, or playing and laughing. This morning I conducted a secret mission to their house. After they left for school, I coordinated with their mom and brother to drop off Christmas presents for them. Each day, regardless of the weather, they arrive in the same clothes. The littlest one’s jacket, once white, is now stained brown. I know their mom loves them dearly but because of her health is unable to work. This Christmas, their brother will pull out matching boxes from Ms. Burnett with a black puffy vest for the little one and a black fleece for the older one. Each of them has a laugh that I could not get out of my mind even if I tried. They are full of life and joy. I look forward to Christmas morning and the chance to imagine their laughs as they remember that a young teacher, miles away in Colorado is thinking about them and loves them. It was a little victory.
Teaching this semester was undeniably the hardest thing I have ever done. It was full of hard lessons, insubordinate students, long hours, and mistakes, but that’s not how I will remember it. I think I will be able to remember this semester as being full of little victories. Like little beams of light, I will remember the smiles of each of my students as I gave them personalized letters telling them how important they are and proud I am to be their teacher. Like little glimpses of the sun, I will remember the times I dropped homework off at home, brought medicine to a family, or received visits from parents thanking me for being the first person to truly take in interest in their child. Like little glimmers of hope, I will remember students choosing to be friends instead of fight, choosing school instead of gangs, and choosing love instead of hate.
I haven’t stopped thinking about the boy walking across the field all day. He never called. Maybe his sister’s phone is off like his mom’s is. I hope and pray that he is okay. But despite the heartache I still can’t help but thank God for the little victories in his life and for the the realization that as much as I have come to love him and my other students, my God loves them infinitely more. He sees them, knows them, and protects them more than I ever could and that is a great victory.
Rachel Burnett Teaches Spanish at Wooddale Middle School in Shelby County Schools.
Posted on December 22, 2013
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