Lunchtime Epiphanies

A few days before the semester ended last year, I was talking with one of my students about my impending departure from Orange County High School of the Arts to a job closer to home. I expressed a bit of my trepidation at leaving the kooky familiarity that defined my present position for a job at a large, public high school. Austin, in many ways, was the quintessential OCHSA student. He was intelligent, creative, eager to learn, cynical of the status quo, though equally empathetic and compassionate. And, most importantly, he laughed at my lame jokes. What would teaching be like without kids like Austin? Upon hearing my concern, Austin, wise beyond his fifteen years, shrugged and said, "Ah, Mrs. Burgess, don't worry about it. Kids are just kids wherever you are."

The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.

Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.

Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.

It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.