Maria and Words

     “Hey Mr. Robinson, how are you?”

     I turned and looked at the lovely young woman, not recognizing her. Even in the short time I’ve taught, I’m used to this, “I’m sorry. I can’t place your name.”

     “I’m Maria, you taught me American History at Monterrey.”

     The mists slowly parted as the synapses slowly warmed up. “Ah, yes, I remember. How’s your daughter?” Maria had come to my class in order to earn her high-school diploma. She’d dropped out the year before in order to give birth. Once she’d got her life back to a semblance of normal, she returned to finish up her school work. I remembered a petulant young mother who struggled to make it through the daily grind of class. “How’re you doing?”

     “Oh great! I’m in nursing school and doing well, thanks to you,” she replied bright brown eyes twinkling. She looked so much more in charge of who she was than I remembered.

     “Due to me? I taught you history and we never discussed nursing school.”  

     “Of course not. But you told me I could, remember, when I was taking a test. You told me that I could do it.”

     And then I remembered. I was administering one of the district required tests. I walked around the classroom, ensuring students stayed on task, completed their exams, and, hopefully, did their own work. Maria, a recent addition to our class, was continually off-task. She fidgeted, played with her pen, and pestered her classmates. I admonished her repeatedly, telling her to get back to work and leave others alone. I found her frequent disturbances annoying. Eventually in exasperation I said rather loudly, “Maria! Will you get back to work!”

     “Mr. Robinson, I can’t. It’s too hard,” she whined.

     “Maria, look at me,” I hissed trying not to show my exasperation. “You’ve given birth, right?”

     She nodded sullenly; annoyed at becoming the center of attention.

     “Well, I’ve witnessed birth twice. And I’ve seen how hard it is. There is nothing that Mr. Robinson can ask you to do that’s harder than that. You’ve already done the hardest thing possible. Now focus and get back to work!”

     Maria nodded and returned to her test. She remained on task until the end of the period, finishing her test. Once the bell rang, she gathered up her things and left the class with the mass of students, disappearing into the thronged hallway. Collecting the tests, I bade the students farewell. The moment passed into my memory, filed away in some corner of my mind where it sat dormant until that day in Walmart.

     For me that moment was all about classroom management. All I wanted was for Maria to stay on task and finish her test. I was not thinking on a deeper level. For Maria, this was a life moment. Do not misunderstand me; she did not come into my class thinking, “Oh, I’ll have a critical moment in my life today.” It was just one of those things that happen, a serendipity. I just said something to her in a way that she did not expect. She’d never thought that she’s completed one of life’s hardest tasks. For just a moment she saw things differently. She saw possibility when there had been none. Someone reminded her of the difficulties she’s already overcome and what that accomplishment meant for future possibilities. As I said before, I did not plan this moment.

     Experiences such as this bring great joy to teaching. You never know when something will unlock a door for a student; and you never know what door it will unlock. I was focused on a minor classroom management challenge, nothing more. Maria received something entirely different. Students are not passive sponges, sitting there absorbing all we say. Students walk in the door with thoughts, sometimes burdens, all their own. They screen our words and activities through the filter of their lives at the moment. In this case Maria heard something I did not intend to say, “You can do anything.” This leads me to another truth about teaching, the need for positive affirmation.

     Our words, small or great, impact our students. For many of them student-teacher interaction far outweighs student-parent interaction. I must guard my words, ensuring that whenever possible I encourage students, reminding them of the broad vistas of the possible. My words ought to build up, not tear down. In a brief unexpected moment I opened the door of possibility for a student and she stepped though. Perhaps the most astounding, humbling, and sobering portion of this moment is that I had no idea this took place. One of my students made a life decision; without my knowing. Understanding this ought to make me speak carefully; whenever possible positively.

     As always I crave your feedback. Let me know if this helps, or if you think it needs improvement in any way. I welcome your comments. If you find these writings helpful, like and share.