It’s been about a year since I’ve been in a classroom as a teacher. With the heavy course load I have my first year of doctoral work, I can’t say I’m overly sad to not be a teacher. But today, I miss it.
Why?
I miss the students like me that I saw walking into the classroom. Every semester there was a handful, and while teaching underprepared and underrepresented students through the Louisiana Academy for Innovative Teaching and Learning (LAITL) program at McNeese State University, I saw many students just. like. me.
I was a first-generation student, which meant I had no one in my family to help me through the process of applying to schools, of applying for financial aid, of starting school, and most importantly, of staying in school.
I was fairly smart in high school; I had a lot going for me besides book smarts, such as singing (initially, going into undergrad, I wanted to major in music, become an opera singer, and then a music teacher) and sports (loved softball, soccer, and lax). I was the kid seen as the Great Black Hope. I was going to do something beyond get a high school diploma and a job. I was going to go to college and get a career.
But there were a lot of hurdles before me – both educationally and personally.
Though I did well in school, I couldn’t “pass” an SAT test to save my life, no matter how many classes I took or hours I studied. This initially kept me from getting into the schools I wanted. This moment, this inability to do well on an SAT (which later became the GREs), would haunt me for most of my academic career, even now. No matter how well I do in the classroom, there is a part of me always waiting for the other shoe to fall, to show me that my “smarts” are really just smoke and mirrors. I have to combat this demon on a daily basis. I can get an e-mail right now stating I made an A on a project, and my emotions will go as follows: Immediate excitement and thanking of God. Almost immediate thought of “Well, that was an easy assignment” or “I have to do better than this” or “I don’t know how long I can keep this façade up.” Someday, I hope to have this issue nipped in the bud.
Personally, I was dealing with major problems that took away from my ability to focus on college. My stepfather was (and still is) a raging alcoholic, who was always verbally and emotionally abusive and times, physically so, too. As the oldest child, I wanted to protect my siblings, but I couldn’t always do that.
It’s hard, walking into a classroom and pretending to care about environmental science when you know that the minute you step into your house, you might have to call the police yet again because your father is on a drunken rampage and wants to act a fool on your front porch.
Some didn’t understand my need to take a break from school when my mother became ill and almost died. They didn’t know how important my family was to me. They didn’t know my inner workings, the thoughts that said school will always be there; my family won’t. They didn’t realize that with a basically absentee father, I would have to step up and make some dinners and lunches, wash the clothes, the keep up the house, take care of me and my siblings while my mother recovered. They didn’t see the times I broke down, thinking all was lost only to get back up and go back to the classroom and pass a test or write a paper despite the problems that raged about in my head.
I was a student, yes.
But I was a person, too. And sometimes, the person I am—the person you are—can affect the student you want to be.
I get that.
Some don’t.
There are many who roam the halls of universities and colleges and only look at the SAT, the GRE. They only look at what a student produces for the class, without thinking that this young adult could actually be brilliant, but because we’re only worried about the numbers at the end of the day, we would never know what that student is truly capable of. We don’t see that if we just paused and listened to a student, truly heard him or her, we could begin to unleash some of those problems for students and aid them in academic success.
And I have to admit, because you guys who read me here know I work hard to be truthful, that I was one of those teachers when I first started. The first couple years of teaching were a training of a lecture-assignment-grade-return cycle, and it was hard to break out of it.
And then I taught for LAITL. My first semester in that program, I had to call security. A lot. Students were rowdy. Sometimes fights broke out. I felt like I was starring in a remake of Lean on Me.
One day, I broke. And I got real with the students. I told them a bit about my struggles with school and my determination to make it through despite outside forces, to include family, friends, and especially those within the education system that—though I hate to admit—wait to see you become a statistic.
After my moment of realness, I dismissed class and went back to my office. I was drained. Upset. Memories of my hardships flooded me. I was ready, after only a few weeks into the program, to call defeat. I was done.
And then there was a knock on my door a few hours later. A black male student, one that thought he was the life of my classroom party, was standing at the door, looking ashamed. Almost immediately he apologized for disrespecting me and the classroom. You see, for him, I was the first black teacher he had ever had. The minute he saw me, he thought, “Oh yeah. Got a cool black teacher? It’s about to be on.” He was ready for fun and cuttin’ up because he thought I was down. He didn’t realize that down for me as a teacher in a university meant coming to class on time, participating in class, doing the work, and being a productive member of the classroom.
He didn’t have many people of color in his life that could act as a role model, that could guide him, show him how to make a way…sometimes out of no way.
My story made him realize that he and I weren’t that different. Like me, he worked hard to help his family, which often meant he didn’t have much time to help himself—which explained the late assignments.
My presence in the classroom made him—and a lot of the students in my classes—realize that blacks were educated and could be an agent of change within the classroom, and beyond.
And I miss that. I miss being a difference. I miss seeing students like me, full of circumstances that want to keep them bogged down in muck and wishful thinking, rise to match the brilliance that they hold within themselves. I miss seeing a student “get it” and begin to take autonomy of their academic career, their life. I miss seeing that change that occurs when a student who’s been told “You can’t” and “No” all her life decides to open her mouth and shout, “I can” and “Yes.”
Seeing these things, experiencing these things gives me personal worth as an educator. Accolades are nice. Getting something published, great. But the joy of seeing the fruits of your labor grow and aid in the growth of others? Can’t be beat.
Why?
I miss the students like me that I saw walking into the classroom. Every semester there was a handful, and while teaching underprepared and underrepresented students through the Louisiana Academy for Innovative Teaching and Learning (LAITL) program at McNeese State University, I saw many students just. like. me.
I was a first-generation student, which meant I had no one in my family to help me through the process of applying to schools, of applying for financial aid, of starting school, and most importantly, of staying in school.
I was fairly smart in high school; I had a lot going for me besides book smarts, such as singing (initially, going into undergrad, I wanted to major in music, become an opera singer, and then a music teacher) and sports (loved softball, soccer, and lax). I was the kid seen as the Great Black Hope. I was going to do something beyond get a high school diploma and a job. I was going to go to college and get a career.
But there were a lot of hurdles before me – both educationally and personally.
Though I did well in school, I couldn’t “pass” an SAT test to save my life, no matter how many classes I took or hours I studied. This initially kept me from getting into the schools I wanted. This moment, this inability to do well on an SAT (which later became the GREs), would haunt me for most of my academic career, even now. No matter how well I do in the classroom, there is a part of me always waiting for the other shoe to fall, to show me that my “smarts” are really just smoke and mirrors. I have to combat this demon on a daily basis. I can get an e-mail right now stating I made an A on a project, and my emotions will go as follows: Immediate excitement and thanking of God. Almost immediate thought of “Well, that was an easy assignment” or “I have to do better than this” or “I don’t know how long I can keep this façade up.” Someday, I hope to have this issue nipped in the bud.
Personally, I was dealing with major problems that took away from my ability to focus on college. My stepfather was (and still is) a raging alcoholic, who was always verbally and emotionally abusive and times, physically so, too. As the oldest child, I wanted to protect my siblings, but I couldn’t always do that.
It’s hard, walking into a classroom and pretending to care about environmental science when you know that the minute you step into your house, you might have to call the police yet again because your father is on a drunken rampage and wants to act a fool on your front porch.
Some didn’t understand my need to take a break from school when my mother became ill and almost died. They didn’t know how important my family was to me. They didn’t know my inner workings, the thoughts that said school will always be there; my family won’t. They didn’t realize that with a basically absentee father, I would have to step up and make some dinners and lunches, wash the clothes, the keep up the house, take care of me and my siblings while my mother recovered. They didn’t see the times I broke down, thinking all was lost only to get back up and go back to the classroom and pass a test or write a paper despite the problems that raged about in my head.
I was a student, yes.
But I was a person, too. And sometimes, the person I am—the person you are—can affect the student you want to be.
I get that.
Some don’t.
There are many who roam the halls of universities and colleges and only look at the SAT, the GRE. They only look at what a student produces for the class, without thinking that this young adult could actually be brilliant, but because we’re only worried about the numbers at the end of the day, we would never know what that student is truly capable of. We don’t see that if we just paused and listened to a student, truly heard him or her, we could begin to unleash some of those problems for students and aid them in academic success.
And I have to admit, because you guys who read me here know I work hard to be truthful, that I was one of those teachers when I first started. The first couple years of teaching were a training of a lecture-assignment-grade-return cycle, and it was hard to break out of it.
And then I taught for LAITL. My first semester in that program, I had to call security. A lot. Students were rowdy. Sometimes fights broke out. I felt like I was starring in a remake of Lean on Me.
One day, I broke. And I got real with the students. I told them a bit about my struggles with school and my determination to make it through despite outside forces, to include family, friends, and especially those within the education system that—though I hate to admit—wait to see you become a statistic.
After my moment of realness, I dismissed class and went back to my office. I was drained. Upset. Memories of my hardships flooded me. I was ready, after only a few weeks into the program, to call defeat. I was done.
And then there was a knock on my door a few hours later. A black male student, one that thought he was the life of my classroom party, was standing at the door, looking ashamed. Almost immediately he apologized for disrespecting me and the classroom. You see, for him, I was the first black teacher he had ever had. The minute he saw me, he thought, “Oh yeah. Got a cool black teacher? It’s about to be on.” He was ready for fun and cuttin’ up because he thought I was down. He didn’t realize that down for me as a teacher in a university meant coming to class on time, participating in class, doing the work, and being a productive member of the classroom.
He didn’t have many people of color in his life that could act as a role model, that could guide him, show him how to make a way…sometimes out of no way.
My story made him realize that he and I weren’t that different. Like me, he worked hard to help his family, which often meant he didn’t have much time to help himself—which explained the late assignments.
My presence in the classroom made him—and a lot of the students in my classes—realize that blacks were educated and could be an agent of change within the classroom, and beyond.
And I miss that. I miss being a difference. I miss seeing students like me, full of circumstances that want to keep them bogged down in muck and wishful thinking, rise to match the brilliance that they hold within themselves. I miss seeing a student “get it” and begin to take autonomy of their academic career, their life. I miss seeing that change that occurs when a student who’s been told “You can’t” and “No” all her life decides to open her mouth and shout, “I can” and “Yes.”
Seeing these things, experiencing these things gives me personal worth as an educator. Accolades are nice. Getting something published, great. But the joy of seeing the fruits of your labor grow and aid in the growth of others? Can’t be beat.
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