Musings on Students #1

There comes a day in every teacher’s life in which one looks at one’s self and says “you know, I’m so full of wisdom and good sense that it would be a travesty to waste all of this accumulated knowledge. I must distribute my insights to the cold and untamed masses, so that I may raise them out of their general ignorance. I shall attempt to distribute my vast learnings through the elegant medium of words.”

And now I will bless you with mine.

The first thing all teachers wish you to know is that we can’t make you learn. Nope. If you are intent upon sitting in a room in which some batty man or woman happens to be trying to engage your brain but you just can’t be bothered to pay attention, well, there’s very little we can do for you. Cars won’t run if they don’t have an ignition. Fridges aren’t worth their weight in aluminum if they don’t have cheese within. And people are destined to enjoy a life of regret if they aren’t interested in learning something, sometime, from someone.

That isn’t to say that school is the place this needs to happen. Honestly, I think I’ve had the good luck to hang out with more interesting dropouts than the checklist kids, the kids who think that completion of tasks is tantamount to absorption. The grade-grubbers know what they want: a number on a transcript. They know how they are going to get it: doing exactly what the teacher asks of them or, failing that, whining to mommy and daddy until their progenitors are hassled into action - that action being complaining not to the teacher themselves (as that would require actual confrontation and that can be scary), but rather a more compliant human, usually a principal.

And as the world moves around them through the years, these grade-grubbers find themselves in comfortable middle-management tiers or research positions, not making too many waves and constantly quieting that little nagging voice just behind their ear that tells them that maybe they’ve plateaued a little early and are missing out on the spice of life. That maybe saying you’ve made it is not the same as actually making it.

No, the dropouts and strugglers are much more interesting. They make for a richer brew, with a few more grinds that get through the filter, but that’s how you know what you’re drinking is real and not just instant garbage. If they’ve made it - and by “made it” I mean doing something they love, that they believe in, that keeps them getting up in the morning, no matter what numbers are involved - they are the happiest people in the world. They’re the ones you want to have a drink with, not throw a drink at.

Even as students, in the midst of the mire of their angst, they are more fun. Don’t get me wrong (especially you snooping parents): I love all of my students. The students who try hard and work hard and achieve, or even those for whom high school is a joke (and it is, but with “hey, you have to pay insurance now and care about boring things like retirement” as a punchline, so not that funny) and who earn the effortless A’s - those students are wonderful. Heartwarming. World changing.

But those students who come in with a very inappropriate yet hilarious observation about one of my colleagues? Or maybe a story about how they lost control of their truck last night and now have a nice new dent in the bumper? Those are the ones that make me laugh, and for that I love them.

But I love all of them. There are days I don’t feel it quite as much. The days with more noise. The static of “hey, I can’t sit by so-and-so” or “why did I get a bad grade when I didn’t do anything in class ever”. But then they come back into my room the next day, and just for a second as the door opens and they slouch through, I see them for what they are. Children. Kids. Little humans full of promise and fear and runny noses and awkward glances at each other. People that just want to be loved and accepted. People who were born good and pure, thrust into a world that doesn’t care about them and will spit them out, some sooner than others. And I just want to hug them and tell them it’s going to be alright, or maybe it won’t, but in any case I love them and they will always have that.

And then I turn back to the board, and the lesson starts.