And I can even do The Dougie

I was starting to write a blog about how all women think everything is their fault (mostly because there are certain men who tell them this and they believe them) but then I received a phone call that totally changed my mind.  Yes, I still think everything is my fault, but that can wait for another day.  I mean, I am sure it was me who caused the hole in the ozone layer from all of the Aqua Net I used in the late 70’s and the economy is crashing because I haven’t paid off my student loans yet; but seriously, all of that can wait for the next blog.  Although, the next blog will be on how stupid Valentine’s Day is, so the “It’s all my fault” blog will be the one after that.  I am kind of just thinking out loud here, ya know, planning.  You probably don’t actually have to be here for this conversation…

Let me tell you about some of the good things that can be considered “my fault”.

This is my third year of teaching at the same very small charter school.  Because the school is so small, I know almost all of the kids.  Plus, because I am one of only two high school English teachers, I have taught almost all of the students there as well.  Yep, there are only two of us hawking literature which is great because we have a little more autonomy than if we had to team teach. However, it may suck for a kid who isn’t thrilled with having me for their teacher.  It’s kind of like, sorry sweetie; you are stuck with me so make the most of it.  It’s probably a good life lesson for my students.  Ya know, prepare them for later in life when they have to deal with people that are annoying, like college roomates and co-workers and spouses.

Anyway…I am the senior class advisor again (go back and read I’m a leopard, not a cougar and The Prom) (go read the old ones too cuz they’re really funny, if I do say so myself) and these students I have had for all three years.  I know them, I’ve taught them, and I have learned from them too.  They taught me about The Urban Dictionary and taught me how to do “the dougie” and taught me about the joys of refined sugar.  As much as I think they are a collective pain in the ass, I really like them.  Well, I will be honest and say “most” of them. But these students, some of them, mean more to me than I thought possible. 

There is one kid who this blog is specifically about.  His father died on the last day of school last year, very suddenly.  At first, I thought he was joking when he told me because he had mastered the fine art of sarcasm under my tutelage as well as having a propensity for dark humor.  But his eyes, wide with grief, said it all.  I couldn't believe he was even at school, but he said he just didn't want to be at home.  It was all too much.

Since it was the last day of school, there wasn’t much going on, and he was totally in shock, so he asked if he could just hang out in my classroom for the day.  I called all of his teachers and there he stayed, on my makeshift couch, quietly playing on his contraband phone.  He talked a little, I made him eat (Jewish mother that I am) but mostly, he just sat there.  He asked me if I would come to the funeral.  Just be there.  The funeral was one of those huge Liberian funerals where at least twenty people spoke about his dad.  I had met his dad on several occasions and had had many conversations with him.  Ya see, although I really liked having him as a student, he was a total slacker who would always be failing my class at some point during the semester so calls home were inevitable.  His dad was very tall and serious but a warm hearted man.  He loved his son, he was a good father and I miss those conversations about how we were going to light a fire under his son to keep him motivated. 

So, there I was, white teacher at the African funeral.  Big black hat, little white lady in the back; that was me.  It was an open casket and I had never seen a dead body before and we all had to walk past the casket to pay our respects to his father.  I really didn’t want to, but I did it anyway.  I remember thinking how small his father looked for such a tall man.  It looked like his father but just sort of the shell of him.  After I walked past, I hugged my student and sat back down to listen to the eulogies and sermon.  The reverend was a little man but a powerful speaker.  I think there was one point during his sermon where I accidently accepted Jesus as my savior, I really didn't mean to.  I think my rabbi would totally understand.  It was an accident.  I told him about it later, (my student, not my rabbi) and he laughed, knowing the dialogue that was probably going on inside my head during the funeral.  The surreal nature of being there.  The funeral, the accidental acceptance of Christ, getting lost on the way to the funeral...seriously, there I was, in “the jungle” of South LA without a GPS, making repeated u-turns and wondering if the red flames on my mini-van should be blue.  It's funny, I wasn't scared of being murdered by gangs but rather scared of what my student had to deal with.  Scared of what we all had to deal with.  Scared of seeing his father one last time.  Scared of my own mortality.  And yet grateful that I was there.  Seriously, it was a powerful day that made me want to go home and hug my own children.

Months have passed and one by one my seniors have been accepted into college.  Well, most of them.  Some are still waiting, some have stopped waiting, and some just are waiting to graduate and be done.  I do love this part of being their senior class advisor because when my seniors do get accepted into college, they run into my classroom with their acceptance letters and hug me.  I always get chills.  This particular student was also accepted into college.  I told him how proud his dad would have been.  He just smiled quietly like his dad would have and nodded.  He looks so much like him...

Last night, out of the blue he called me to thank me.  He said he wasn’t sure if he ever had.  He told me I wasn’t just a teacher to him but something so much more.   I was special to him and I was there when he really needed me and he thanked me again.  I asked him to record that for me so I could play it back and hear it when teaching became hard and I needed a reminder.   It was a pretty great reminder of why I do what I do for very little money.

I just felt like sharing that.  I haven’t written much lately and it feels good to be inspired.  It just felt really, really wonderful to be validated by a student.  It’s not like I think I am Hillary Swank in Freedom Writers, or Sidney Poitier To Sir With Love but I think I do some good stuff here.  I realized last year that it may be the administration who pays the teachers, but ultimately, it’s the students we are working for.  Of course, I may get burned out in a few years from all of the stupid questions they ask like “But what if I don’t turn my paper in on time?” and “Oh, should I be writing the assignment down or can you just facebook it to me?” and “Ms. Levine, why do you teach in three-inch heels?” But for now, I’m good.  

Okay, on to the Valentines Blog with much more self deprecating humor, I promise.  But for now, I will just bask in the glow of that phone call and know that with the absolute idiocy of the No Child Left Behind Act, there are a few who have not been left behind.