Teach Ten Thousand Stars

I sat in the social worker’s office, doing some final grading. I was the official “regular ed teacher” who  obediently signed off on the papers that were handed to me as one by one, seniors sat through their exit meetings from our school’s “Exceptional Children” (read, in NCspeak, Special Ed). Three different counselors emptied their caseloads and each adjured me to take out some work, I didn’t have to pay attention to the proceedings. But I did.

Dull-looking children sat opposite me, staring at me instead of at their counselors. I was less threatening, I suppose. I gave them encouraging smiles and whispered “congratulations!” when the counselor read off in a dull voice that they were being exited out of the program and out of high school, nervous that I was interrupting the proceedings. As the counselors informed student after student that they were now 21 and being timed out of the benefits of the program, and indeed out of high school, or that they'd scraped through their diploma and could now move on to an uncertain future, I felt a mounting hysteria build. She asked each kid, “do you have plans for after?” None of them did. “Well, hopefully you’ll find a job.” Hopefully. I wanted to stop the proceedings, insist that these children not sign until more help was given them in figuring out the next step. But I signed, and signed, and wondered whether I am content to be a cog in an evil machine instead of the thinking, justice-seeking human being I wish to be.

The last counselor was different. For each child, she built them up. “This is your exit meeting… legal blather, legal blather… and guess what?” The children looked up, anticipating. “You are graduating high school with a diploma, and exiting the Exceptional Children’s Program! That means you don’t need our help anymore? How does that feel?” These children smiled, nodded, lit up. Several reached over to shake my hand of their own volition as they exited the office. They had summer jobs, or had applied for them with her help. Note to self: always spin positive.

 

I passed out goodbye notes to two of my classes. It’s a step up from last semester, when one class was all I could find it in my heart to write heartfelt goodbye notes to. I know these kids slightly better, too—have gotten better at finding out who they are and what makes them tick. They looked up, one by one, to say thank you as I passed among them. As my shining pupil in my last class walked out, he muttered, “I’ll miss this class.” So will I.

Did I teach them anything this year? As I wobbled back and forth, finding my teaching philosophy? As I learned world history and struggled to come to grips with the real, not the textbook facts, well enough to teach it? Can they write better now? Can they read better now? Do they want to? Do they know themselves a little more than they did at the start, have a slightly better sense of their ability to make themselves over, to bring joy to the world and kindness, too? With all the testing, state standards, TFA data dumps and school requirements, did I kill their joy for learning, or help them see around that to the keen edge of knowledge’s horizon? The state exams next week will not prove any of that, but I must have, a little. Still, the adage that teachers learn more than ever their students do, is forever true. And it’s okay. Because it will come back to the students.

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.

-ee cummings