Strands of shaggy brown hair fall over his bloodshot eyes and onto his shoulders as he sighs an exasperated, “why won’t you just let me sleep?”
This was Lem’s* demeanor every single day when I started teaching his 11th grade English class. Every day, he trudged through the door, slunk into his seat, put his head down into his arms, and refused to engage in what the class was doing. Every day, I would start his classmates in their lessons, then pull a chair up beside him, wake him up, and try to engage in some sort of meaningful dialogue. And every day I would fail.
I was teaching at a majority middle-class school in a rural community. Imposter syndrome is always a challenge for a new teacher, and I was struggling with not just that, but with relating to and communicating with students who had never known what it meant to have the utilities cut off when their parents’ meager paychecks could not pay the bills; students who would never know what empty cabinets and “nothing to eat it the house” really means; students who do not know what it means to have to work, so they can help their family pay rent or buy groceries; students who had never known the fear of not knowing if they would have a house to live in tomorrow. I had spent my whole life working multiple jobs. I was blessed with scholarships and grants designed to help lower income students, and provided assistance from my tribe in order to earn my Bachelor’s Degree and afford to become a teacher in this classroom. I am the first on either side of my family to have graduated college, and I had stepped into a world of trustfunds, generational wealth, and privilege.
I do not remember when it happened, but one day Lem had had enough of my persistence.
“Why do you even care?” he shouted, “all the other teachers let me sleep!”
“Because you matter, Lem!” I did not shout, but I matched his passion. “Whether you want me to or not, I am not going to stop caring about you. In this classroom, you are loved forever and always no matter what, and because I love you, I care about you engaging in life, in this classroom, and in your education. So what’s going on with you?”
That day, and over the next few days, Lem began to share a little about his life, here and there. Some days I would share my stories, of high school, of growing up, of poverty. He was my people. My stories were something he could relate to. The flood gates were not open, by any means, but at least we had found them–still locked and sealed, but we had found them.
One day, Lem was acting uncharacteristically belligerent toward his classmates. Once again, I got the class started and then pulled up a chair to his desk. “Lem…”
He looked away, “someone held a gun to my head last night.” The floodgates had been opened.
That day I learned that Lem’s family had lost their house and he, his mother, and his four siblings had been living out of their car for three months now. Although Lem had told me that he worked long shifts at Taco Bell, “that’s why I need to sleep,” that day I learned that he had also begun selling drugs in hopes to help his mom save for the downpayment on an apartment. A deal had gone wrong last night, and he had almost paid with his life. Lem was just a kid, a kid carrying the weight of his whole family on his shoulders. School didn’t matter because food mattered, being warm and safe mattered, protecting his kid sister and baby brothers mattered, helping his mamma live in a home mattered. No one knew because, “no one ever asked, and I didn’t think anyone would care.”
Fast forward three years and a few months from that conversation. It is Thanksgiving, and I am floating around our grandparents’ house visiting, picking at the smoked ham sitting on the counter of the kitchen, when my phone rings. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Kubiak?”
“This is she.”
“This is Lem. You gave me your cellphone number when I graduated, and you said if I ever needed anything to call you?”
“Yes…” I begin a silent prayer for him. Lord, protect Lem, and keep him…
“Don’t worry. Everything’s okay. In fact, it’s really good, and I just called to tell you thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have never graduated, and I might even be dead. I just wanted to let you know.”
Lem is why I teach.
Nadia* transferred into my 10th grade English class in the spring–only a few months before the end of the school year. How terrified she must have been! I did my best to help her classmates embrace her, and I adjusted our activities to enable her to participate fully even though we were deep into a class novel. Her classmates took a little longer to embrace “the new kid.” Her Indian accent stood out against their Oklahoma drawls. Her bangled wrists and jeweled forehead were something they had never personally encountered. I am a lover of cultures, so any time we had a moment to converse and every time the lesson naturally lent to the conversation of heritage, I leaned in to learn more from Nadia and to help her classmates to engage in the exchange by sharing their backgrounds. It was beautiful when the class fully embraced their no-longer-new classmate.
Nadia was incredible. Her work ethic: exceptional–she CAUGHT UP on the reading! She turned in impeccable work. She participated fully in all class discussions. On many occasions–after Nadia had just blown all of our minds with her insight and higher level questions–I encouraged her, “take Advanced Placement classes once you get to eleventh grade–you will love it.” When prom arrived Nadia and her mother gifted me a box full of beautiful Indian earrings to wear to prom with an Indian tunic I had found at a local thrift store. I had asked her if it would be appropriate for me to wear it. I wanted to honor and celebrate her and her Indian heritage.
“You must wear it–I am so excited you love my culture! You are the only teacher I have ever had who has ever asked me about my culture.”
This broke my heart. Nadia was in the 10th grade, and I was the first teacher to ever ask her about her culture? She had transferred from the Texas school systems–not directly from India– and had attended American schools since the 3rd grade, and I was the first teacher to ask her about her culture? So, when prom night arrived, yes, I spent the evening dancing and chaperoning, but mostly I spent the night sharing and celebrating Indian culture: what “the dots” mean on foreheads, why they “throw that colored powder” in celebration of Holy Days, and what fun it is to join an Indian dance circle. I hoped my joy would spread and encourage other teachers and students to ask questions, be curious to understand the people around them, and engage in meaningful conversations.
The final days of the year were approaching, and I was so looking forward to seeing all that Nadia would accomplish in the years to come. Then the floodgates opened. In our reading journal time, Nadia began to share secrets she had been keeping: her father preventing her and her mother from attending religious services, the verbal tirades where he would hurl vile words and accusations at her and her mother, the beatings… I contacted the authorities, but it would not matter: the very next day Nadia came to my classroom early to deliver a thank you note and gift from her and her mother and to tell me that she was being sent back to Texas; she would not even finish our last couple days in class. She wanted to thank me one last time, and just like that she was whisked away.
Nadia is why I teach.
I do not know the rest of Nadia’s story. I do run into Lem or receive a Facebook message from time to time. I keep them (and all of my students) in my prayers. Every child who walks into a classroom has a story to tell, a culture to share, or a secret they need to voice. Some may feel that these things are secondary to the learning of facts and processes; they do not see that a whole child, a safe child, a loved and heard child is better able to learn the facts and the processes. I teach to remove barriers to student learning, to empower my students to seek knowledge for themselves–for their own future– and to ensure that every student who walks into my classroom knows that they are loved forever and always no matter what.
*Names have been changed to protect student privacy.
