Normally, it’s my favorite day of the year. Open House means nervous but excited students, hugs from returning students and the optimistic bliss of a new year ahead. But the question we all, students and teachers alike, normally wonder, hung extra heavy on my heart tonight: What would this year really be like for all of us in Room 15?
While my Google presentation cycled on the projector with bright colors and cheerful fonts sharing tidbits of fun facts and information about our class and school, I greeted families and introduced new students to each other with an enthusiasm I’ve never had to fake until now. I laughed and I joked and I listened and I assured and I did all the things I know to do, but for the first time, I felt an uneasiness, a concern, a worry that had begun carving into my heart last spring – a concern that I could never be enough for these students this year, a concern that my game face, my faked energy, my quasi-enthusiasm were going to fall short and that instead of blossoming under my care, I would leave these students woefully short of where they otherwise might have landed.
I tried to shake it off. I tried to hear the words that so many colleagues have uttered in meaningful comfort, “These students will be the better for it. They will learn what it means to love and be human and what it means to be part of a family.” I tried. I really did try. And for the most part, I think I succeeded. At least I don’t think anyone else in my room was ever aware of my trepidation.
But near the end of Open House, a family entered my room. Their child, one of my new fourth graders, was quiet and unassuming, but the parents wore their concerns on their faces from the moment they walked in. With whispered voices and nervous glances to make sure the student was distracted elsewhere in the room, they shared with me, quickly, with urgency, some of what was on their mind. The love for their child was palpable. And so it was that while I stood there, in my bright, colorful classroom, surrounded by books and kids and tables with newly sharpened pencils, that the words of this father struck my heart and unleashed my unspoken fear. “We just really hope this year is a more stable year,” this worried dad said.
He went on to explain that last year the student’s teacher had unexpectedly and suddenly left, leaving the class with a long-term substitute. The dad spoke kindly of both the teacher and the substitute but went on to express how the changes disrupted his child and that this year, this year, they just hoped that more stability might help get their child back on track. To be honest, I don’t know whether I nodded, or smiled or made any physical movement that indicated agreement or understanding, I just know that I stopped my mouth from even opening, knowing that I could not say a single thing in that moment that would help and for fear that something might come out of it that would only add to their concerns.
Later, in my empty classroom, I stood alone, right where I had stood while talking with those parents and I felt the weight of the world. I know what it’s like to worry about a child, to want the best for them at school and to want them to have every possible bit of help and support they need. And here is this precious being, entrusted to me during the year I know I will be less that what I might be, but already coming to me having been through this before.
Before leaving for the night, I emailed my principal and shared the encounter and my concerns. I followed that up with a conversation the next time I saw him and I encouraged him to please contact this family; to give them the opportunity to not just hear about my situation but to have the chance to perhaps shift to a new classroom. I can’t do it for all my students, I realize, and I don’t think it’s necessary for the others, but I can’t let this family walk blindly into the same situation given their concerns.
The matter is out of my hands at this point, and I will support my principal in whatever manner he decides to proceed with this situation. But my heart weighs extra heavy tonight. Stability seems like a small and very reasonable request for a ten year old’s classroom. I don’t know a thing about this student, in fact, I might struggle to remember exactly which one they are come Monday, but my love is already there. I want the best for each and every one of them. And that started before they even walked through my door.
Teaching at 3am 