This past Saturday, I was doing some mindless scrolling through Instagram when I saw an announcement from one of my former students. Diamond – yes, a pseudonym – shared a post from her school highlighting that she was going to a great school for psychology. After a week of conducting six in-depth interviews nightly for six days with teachers from across the city, this felt redemptive. As I heard the hopes and travails of current classroom teachers, I too needed to reflect on my middle school teaching work.
When I saw the post, I flashed back to a little girl in the seventh grade whose reputation preceded her. Either joy or mischief would follow her smiles and laughs, and usually the latter. Her classmates and teachers knew she seemed most likely to find her way to the dean’s or assistant principal’s office for a range of offenses: shouting, chewing gum obnoxiously, scuffling with peers, and/or what we call “running her mouth.” Of course, some students also sought to goad reactions from her as is part of the usual middle school line-stepping, but the punishments came nevertheless. Everyone from the principal to the guidance counselor had direct contact with her guardian, and calling home had little effect on her behavior.
When she got to my classroom, none of that changed in the beginning. But unlike previous years, my cup of patience was next to nil.
In 2018, I went through a wave of doubt as to whether I could do this forever. Three years before I had Diamond in my class (2015), administrators felt that the math curriculum should be split into two curricula for two teachers. (Don’t ask me.) As much as I disagreed, I just plowed forward given the lack of resistance. In the first year of the Trump administration, I had seen a dark turn in the country and my professional life as well. Of course, in September of 2017, my seventh-grade counterpart left for professional and personal reasons, leaving me with half a curriculum for about 145 students. Now, the principal had expected me to teach my parts of the curriculum which were dependent on the other half and/or teach the whole curriculum in half the time.
Because I wasn’t able to magically duplicate myself, the system had labeled me “Developing,” thus assigning me a teacher improvement plan in the same year I achieved National Board certification.
While teaching Diamond’s class, I was also making an urgent case to everyone within earshot about this injustice, working with union lawyers, reading up on education law, and complying now under heavy surveillance from a principal overjoyed with the chance to “humble” me. But I pushed on. I taught my lessons most days with the energy I needed to bring, but I had more frequent occasions of teaching to weather the storm. My interactions with students took a hit. I spent multiple times at my corner desk wondering about my life’s decisions. At that point, my exit plans had failed, too.
But I also recall those moments at parent-teacher conferences when I’d meet my students’ guardians. For Diamond, it was usually her grandmother. Usually, it was about grades and keeping her mindful of our goal for her: doing well and graduating. But, on one occasion, she had stopped me in front of the school after I grabbed my tostada y café from the bodega. I braced myself for the usual “How’s she doing in your class, Mr. Vilson?” conversation.
Instead, after I told her “Fine” and tried to walk away, she held my hands and said (in Spanish), “Listen, I know you’re trying your best, but here’s the situation.” She was usually so soft-spoken, but this time, she firmed up her voice a bit, so I stayed. She outlined her aspirations for Diamond and how much it meant to her and her family that I actually wanted to teach her as I did. A few weeks before that conversation, I had a longer sit-down with Diamond and told her I’d dedicate about five minutes where possible to just sit with her. She not only obliged but said, “I’d like to sit at this desk, right next to your board, so I can do all my work.” We spent weeks, then months this way, and her work kept showing promise.
Diamond’s grandmother gave me one of those familiar hugs and then said, “Thank you.” I awkwardly returned the hug, but walked back to my room to reflect a bit.
Professionally, I know I was losing, but in the way of reaching my students like her, I finally found a win. I realized how much of my hardship came from the machinations in my mind. I was letting a foreign energy take up what I knew to be true about students’ humanity. By the time I lost the case against the city to reverse their “Developing” rating against me, I had “let go and let God,” as they say. I just needed to worry about the students in my classroom and whether I could collect a few more wins for the year.
One of those wins was forming the type of relationship with Diamond that helped me stay in the profession for a few more years. I’m no hero, either. I wish I reached every child the way I reached Diamond and so many others. I have no expectation that my teaching will somehow transform the lives of children nor where it’s supposed to lead, just that my teaching would hopefully influence them to choose great lives for themselves.
But, fast forward to now, and all I could let out was a smile. Joy followed, absolutely.
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