Out of the Ivory Tower

I've posted before (March 5th, for example) about my life outside the Ivory Tower now that I have changed my career for a more family friendly environment. And I ended my last post on the topic saying that the high school students I now teach had ultimately won me over. Seeing students every working day for 50 minutes made more of an impact on a relationship than meeting with them twice a week for 90 minutes, or even three times a week for 50 minutes. The increased number of contact hours meant high school teachers get to know their students far more. I also was able to see students outside of class--having lunch, in assemblies, doing sports, and going to their lockers. They didn't disappear once the class was over. We moved in the same spaces. And that changed things.

Before this year, I had never received any Christmas presents from students. Yes, I had received Christmas cards. But never presents. Homemade presents--some created by parents, some by the students themselves. I received cookies, fudge, boxes of chocolates, wine, and more. The gift that absolutely floored me was a beaded necklace. The student gave it to me, saying, "I chose the colors because you often wear black," first showing me that she paid attention to the smaller details of me. Then, she said, "I used some of the bead from my grandmother's necklaces," which linked me with other older women in her life who had made a difference. I touched each bead, thinking about the time, thought, and kindness that had put them together. At that moment, I thought, "I really do belong here."

One of the next significant turning points came when my mother, my daughter, and I went to a local street fair. Usually, I walk though the small town I live in without seeing anyone I know. After 10 months, I am still a stranger here. This day, however, we ran into a number of my students. I wasn't sure what to expect. College age students either ignored me or came over to stiffly greet me. Certainly, I knew students who had taken more than one of my classes or joined an organization of which I was the advisor enough for them to come engage with me in conversation, to let me become part of their lives. As the director of a women's studies program, I became the front line crisis counselor for many students who had been impregnated, dumped, slighted, rejected, abandoned, raped, beaten, or otherwise injured. I wore a path between my office and the counseling center as I walked them over, and I seriously considered getting a degree in counseling to cut out that walk. I had good relationships with many college age students--don't get me wrong. However, that day at the fair, every student I saw smiled, came over, and gave me a hug. They made a fuss over my daughter, and were thrilled to meet my mother (about whom they had heard stories). I was startled and pleased at the recognition of me as a person with a family and a life outside of the classroom.

The most recent moment happened at the Pinewood Circus. One would think this kinda thing--where kindergarten and first grade students become circus performers for the benefit of the crowd--would not be such a big deal. But at Pinewood, this was a big production, including elaborate decorations, props, costumes, make up, dancing, music, and scripts. Before the circus began, I met with my 2nd period class to take attendance and then walk over to the gym for the show. Some of the students asked, "What will your daughter be wearing?" I explained that she was assigned to be a lion, but wanted to be a dancing girl. She scorned the brown, fuzzy lion's costume the school had provided, saying with tears in her eyes, "Girl lions don't have manes like that. I don't want to be a boy lion." My pink encased, rhinestone and sequin encrusted, high heel wearing girly girl had a point. I told my students how my mom and I had worked to created a pink, fluffy, princess lion to please her. They loved the story.

When we got to the gym, and the children came parading in, decked out in costumes and face paint, my students, who were sitting close to me low on the bleachers, reached their hands out to the little ones as they walked past, getting 'five." Many of these students played their own roles in the circus years before, and I imagined could remember how the little ones felt facing that crowd of big students. They offered encouragement and enthusiasm. When my daughter came by, a cheer went up among my students, and many of them mouthed to me, "She looks great!" They went on to be one of the loudest sections of students in the gym. I was so proud. Not only of my daughter, but also of these students for putting aside whatever teenage issues they faced to remember, for a moment, what it was like to be a child.

Don't get me wrong. All is not perfect. Sometimes these same students can be difficult, rude, arrogant, temperamental, frustrating, moody, disrespectful, offensive, and everything else that teenagers can be. But now, I see the individual behavior I may not like as part of them, not all of them. Like the feelings I have about my daughter when she acts up, I can dislike the behavior, but still like the person. And I do like my students. All of them.