I Hear You

Last year I had 15 students and I didn’t realize that was pure bliss. I mean, to be fair, it was also my first year teaching and I was all but making up my own curriculum and one of my students was virtual so I had to be on Zoom all day (my goodness I don’t miss that), but nonetheless. 15 students. FIFTEEN STUDENTS!!!

This year? 25. I have 25 cute little wild beings who I’m supposed to keep from killing each other and dry their tears and listen to their stories of what they did last night and what they ate this morning and help them understand why it’s not okay to say, Miss Seals can you please move my seat because I don’t like sitting next to him since he’s annoying and oh yeah - teach.

I’ve heard somewhere that after, like, 22 kids - every additional kid is like adding 3 more. And now I get it. There’s this magic number, I’d say around 19, where there’s just the right amount of energy and voices in the room. And then, suddenly, it’s like a bomb went off and there’s bodies everywhere. When I look around the room to see my little humans milling about, I don’t know if it’d be much different if I had 25 students or 100. When they come in from outside and line up to get hand sanitizer, I swear I'm amazed every time how the line keeps on coming. I'm also amazed by how horrible I am at squirting hand sanitizer into little hands - my aim is literally atrocious. At least they have clean shoes.

I have one student - David - who is really giving me a run for my money. Keeping me on my toes. Making me earn my keep. All the things. It’s been this slow, scary progression from being a kid I thought I might need to keep on my radar to the number one kid on my mind all day, all the time. He is becoming, quite honestly, unmanageable. Blurts out incessantly in the middle of me talking. All the time. If I call him on it, he screams, Why? I didn’t do anything! and makes a complete scene, sending my rowdy group of boys into muffled streams of laughter. He’s in a lot of places, least of all being his seat. If he is in his seat, he’s probably banging the pencil incessantly on his desk or scratching his fingers nonstop on his chair. Anything to make noise. Ah - noise - my favorite.

If I try to talk to him, I often can’t get a word out. He always has his hood up, a battle I used to fight but have started to give up on, as I feel like we are fighting a million other battles of greater importance right now. He keeps his hood up over his head and his mask up over his nose, so all I can see are his little eyes.

But here’s the thing - I love his little eyes. I love David. I adore him. I think he’s clever and funny and quick-witted and smart. In fact, I think he’s one of the smartest kids in my room. He’s one of those kids who I honestly believe could change something, could send us to the moon. 

You know what he says to me anytime I ask him why he isn’t doing his work, why he doesn’t want to take his test, why he can’t think of anything to write? 

Because I’m dumb. 

I’m the dumbest.

David hasn’t had an easy life. I’ll just say I landed upon his dad’s name today by complete accident and did a Google search and have felt sick to my stomach since. 

And I’m trying to get him to do schoolwork.

I got my Master’s in School Counseling and it changed the way I think of everything regarding my kids - especially how much value I put on things and what I believe really matters. 

If you know anything about psychology or the way the brain works you know a nine-year-old boy whose father is in prison for doing horrific things isn’t worried about how to find the perimeter of a rectangle. And rightfully so. 

And here is where I’m struggling. Because I get why David doesn’t care about math. I do. And frankly, I don’t think he needs to care that much about math right now. But David not caring about math happens to impede my ability to teach 24 other kids who quite honestly do care about math. So then what?

What do you do when a child is begging to be heard, but his voice is so loud and desperate that it threatens to take over the lesson, take over the room? 

I don’t have the answers. I really don’t. 

But here is what I know. I believe in God and I believe in purpose and I believe people come in and out of your life for a reason. I believe there is a reason David is in my room. I believe there is a reason he is my student and I am his teacher. Tomorrow he is going to walk into my room and I am going to show him that I see him - that I love him. He is going to know, without a doubt, that no matter how many times he blurts out and disrupts my lesson my arms are open wide, and my heart is open even wider.

The truth of the matter is, even as a teacher, academics don’t matter all that much to me. Don't get me wrong - I believe they're important and I put effort into teaching. I just think there are things, especially at the ripe age of nine, that matter more. I had a parent conference the other day over one of the most precious, tender-hearted, gentle students I have ever known and his mom said to me, I just really want to know how he’s doing academically. The truth is he’s a little behind grade level and she’s worried. And I told her that. But I also told her that her son is kind. That he is a good friend. That he helps others. I’m not a mom, but I kind of wonder, what more could you want? 

This is a new week, a clean slate. I’m walking into it with fresh eyes and an open heart, a willing spirit. This is for all my children, but more than anything it’s for David. Sweet David - with your sensitive eyes and your goofy grin. Your shuffling feet and your voice that talks out of turn - this week I'm going to remember that at the root of it all, you just want to be heard.

And I'm going to listen for you, David. I hear you.