Back to School Shopping

Today as I was perusing the aisles of Target, in search of individual portioned breakfast cereal and a new (and heavily discounted) classroom chair for the upcoming school year, I heard my name:

"Mrs. Burgess."

It was an unusually quiet voice from a student who last year was rarely quiet. He would show up, annoyingly, ten minutes before his class began and want to chat (loudly) while I was still needing to teach. He teased me about being old and uncool. He told me about problems with his current foster mother. He shared how his biggest goal is to get back to his biological mom. Then the bell would ring and he would attempt to manipulate himself out of work for the rest of the hour.

So, I asked him about his summer. He shrugged and didn't really answer. And then he said, again, uncharacteristically measured and somber, "You won't be seeing me next year." I asked him why and he pointed down the aisle to a lady standing with a little boy. "My new foster family. I'm going to Webb." We made a little more small talk, I wished him luck, and said goodbye.

Before I made it out of the aisle, I heard my name again.

"Mrs. Burgess. I was telling her that I got to be really good at writing last year, and I wanted you to tell her so that she would believe me."

So I told his new foster mom that he had worked very hard and I was always proud of his work. I told her, truthfully, that he had been more focused first semester, but that I knew what kind of work he was capable of and that I want him to continue to work hard at his new school. Then he told me about how he had just received his driver's license and (because I'm too old and uncool for a fist bump), I gave him a high five. We said good-bye again, I found my individually portioned breakfast cereal, and drove home.

For many reasons, the last school year was painful. And hard. And a little soul-crushing. I let fear envelop and control me. I burned bridges and made mistakes I can't fix. I hurt people and built high, thick walls around myself. I didn't write because for months because I had no words. Just emptiness.

Tonight, I still have walls. Big ones. Things aren't fixed. But I have some words again. The quiet boy on the cereal aisle restored the voice that says you don't have to be perfect or whole or significant to make a difference, even a small difference. You just have to be willing. And you have to show up: to listen, to celebrate a rite of passage, to say to someone I know you can do better and don't give up. This is the core of my role as a teacher, and of what it means to be human. I can do this one thing, warts and all.

For this minute, for this day, for this school year, that's enough.