Hi everyone. I’m a teacher, and I’ve spent my summer vacation staying up late and reading many of the stories here. I thought you guys would enjoy hearing about something that happened to me when I was just starting my career.
After I graduated college, I had trouble finding an opening, and just when I started to give up hope, landed a spot at a little school about 20 miles outside of town. I wasn’t really familiar with the rural lifestyle, but I figured, “kids are kids” and full of confidence, I jumped into the year, eager to make an impression. After a couple of years, it felt comfortable and, though the kids weren’t all the best and brightest, you could count on them to show up every day, and there was always a parent to talk to if there was an issue, academic or otherwise. The parents weren’t necessarily warm, but you could usually count on them to listen and they were around, if nothing else.
It was August… back to school night, the whole place smelled like cleaning solution as the odor of stale urine from the boys’ room had yet to infiltrate the hallway. My classroom wasn’t exactly state of the art; it was a portable building at the end of a row of portable buildings set away from the main school. Daylight was visible through the edges of the doors and windows. There was a wall furnace for heat and window unit for a/c, and it always smelled a little like mildew, but it was mine. I decorated my little tin can and tried to make it as shiny and happy a learning environment as I could. I covered up the spots on the floor with cute rugs, made a cozy library nook, stuck colorful posters on the walls, and hung some border around the top of the wall to hide the water stains.
I met with the parents and students that night, smiling and shaking hands with 22 families, but there wasn’t much mobility in the student body since we were the only elementary school in our little district, so I knew most of the kids and parents already. Still, those little motions are important to go through and it’s in carrying them out that the year has its structure and this night we’d inaugurated another.
I know that every parent thinks their child is a special, unique snowflake, but the truth is that 5th graders, (age 10 to 11), rich and poor, rural and urban, all fall into predictable subgroups: the ones who’ve reached puberty — the boys focused on athletics, the girls on romance — are bigger and more mature, imitating teenagers as best they can; then you’ve got the quiet, hard-working type, trying hard to plan for middle school and high school success and even their adult career, often in the footsteps of a family success story or lack thereof; next are the ones who’ve spent most of their school years in trouble and developed their identity as “the bad kids,” who can sometimes be convinced to change their ways before middle school. The final group is the babies – it’s hard to imagine sending these ones off to middle school in a matter of months. These are the kids that still hold their hands in front of their faces to tell left from right; years away from puberty, they’re still watching “kid” shows and movies, are gullible, naive, and sweet, and can be found at recess playing younger kids’ games like “house” and “ninjas.”
Cody was one of the last group – the babies. He was a just below average student with a year-round buzzcut and a charming smile. I’m sure he was trying his best, but his best placed him just left of the bell curve average. Even when his work was excellent, he usually forgot to put his name on his paper and had to claim it from the no-name papers I taped to the dry erase board. He was friendly and sweet; at least once a week he came to school with a tightly clenched fist of flowers and various pretty weeds he happened across in peoples’ yards on the way to school, grinning, “Ms. Williams, these are for you.” His mind tended to wander in class, and he had a habit of passing the time whittling at his pencils with a pair of scissors, which left a daily mess. I used to feel sorry for the custodian and tried to remind Cody to clean up his mess before leaving each day.
Despite perfect attendance, those missing assignments coupled with his usual C papers left him just above failing as Thanksgiving approached. At parent-teacher conferences, his father warned, “Boy, you don’t get your butt in gear and turn this around, you’re going to be sitting here next year, repeating 5th grade all over again.” He assured me that Cody’s 4-wheelin’ privileges were on the line now and I’d really see an improvement; his mother nodded sternly in reinforcing silence. I was a little skeptical, but Cody was a decent kid and I sort of expected him to finish about where he was, with me letting him squeak by at the end of the year. Retention was actually very rare, but it was still common to hear parents and older teachers use the idea as an idle threat.
The next day, I saw Cody, lips pressed tightly together, taking notes during the math lesson and double checking that his name was on his paper. “Hey, buddy, I noticed that you were really working hard in school today,” I told him that afternoon, “Keep it up!” He nodded. “That’s right, Ms. Williams. I don’t wanna get held back and I’m gonna work real hard from now on.” He quickly added, “I mean, I like you and everything, but I don’t wanna be stuck in 5th grade forever.” I smiled, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and wondered if his new habits would last.
I went to my parents’ for Thanksgiving and woke up from a nap to watch the news with mom and dad. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes when the lead-in story snapped me to attention. Cody’s school picture was up on the screen with a caption reading “Thanksgiving Tragedy.” The reporter explained that Cody and an older cousin had taken their ATVs out after dinner and there’d been an accident. It was surreal to see the news reporter, the local sheriff, and Cody’s relatives being interviewed as if he were some stranger in another city – this was my Cody, not just some dramatic news story on an otherwise slow day. I grabbed my phone to text my principal when I saw twelve missed calls; I didn’t bother checking voicemail. When I reached my principal, all I could sputter was, “Is he okay?” “It looks bad,” he told me. The hospital was only a few miles from my folks’, so I got in the car and hurried over.
I walked into the ER and saw his family in the waiting room; the looks on their faces said what words couldn’t. I scanned the room for Cody’s mother and sheepishly waded through a crowd of relatives, who probably wondered who I was and what business I had there. I squatted down next to his mother, who was sitting in the waiting room, her head in her hands. “Krista, I just heard,” I managed.
“Ms. Williams,” she whispered, “He’s…he didn’t…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence; it was clear that the accident had been fatal. I expressed my sympathies, cried for a bit, then walked heavily back to my car and called my principal. “He’s gone,” I said.
He told me to take my time, offered to arrange a sub for the coming week if I wanted, and asked me to let him know if I found out when the service had been scheduled. I drove back to my parents’ in a daze and told them what had happened, then went home and crawled into bed.
I decided not to get a sub for the coming week; the other students needed me to be there. The Monday after Thanksgiving, the school had hired a grief counselor to “be available” for my class. The woman who showed up was obviously not used to dealing with children and only a few of my students asked to speak with her. I had a long talk with the kids and tried to reinforce that, though we miss Cody very much, we’d always have the happy memories upon which to reflect and from which we could draw comfort and the strength to move forward. We cried, we made cards for Cody’s family, and we discussed what might be a fitting memorial.
Cody’s funeral was on a Saturday – it felt like the whole little town was in attendance. It was strange to see all my students together with morose faces, when I was so used to seeing them carefree and happy, playing four square or Math Blasters. I was in the difficult position of having to carry on and offer support without much of my own from which to draw. There was a real outpouring of help and support for Krista and the rest of Cody’s family, and I was ashamed for feeling sorry for myself when I received no flowers or cards. I spent eight hours a day with the kid and, even though I wasn’t his mother, he was still partially mine. My little flock wouldn’t be the same again.
After the funeral, I stopped by my classroom and cleaned out Cody’s desk. I smiled when a cascade of pencil shavings fell to the floor. I packed away his textbooks, added his pencils to the classroom supply, and prepared a manila envelope to give his mother containing the rest of his desk’s contents, leaving it at the office so she could collect it when she stopped by.
We spent the next couple of weeks slowly getting back to normal; the buildup to Christmas was a convenient distraction. The last week before Christmas break, I’d decided to come in early one morning. It was mid-December and the sun was not yet out. I grabbed my rolling crate and left my car alone in the parking lot as I trudged down the sidewalk to my portable building. Any teacher will tell you that arriving to school early and leaving school late can be a little creepy. It’s not well-lit, and there are joggers, dog walkers, teenagers sneaking around, wild animals, and the general sense that something unpredictable might be around the corner. It didn’t help that today was especially foggy and I could hardly see where I was going. As I walked up the wheelchair ramp towards my portable’s door, I fumbled for the room keys on my lanyard then heard the familiar click of the deadbolt as I turned the lock and shuffled inside. I turned on the furnace, my breath visible in the crisp morning air, and powered on my laptop to answer e-mail.
Riley’s mom had e-mailed about the upcoming biography presentations. Was Riley really supposed to dress up as Benjamin Franklin, or would it be enough if Riley brought a picture of Benjamin Franklin? Katie’s mom asked if I could send the homework she would miss that week, as her family was leaving early for a ski resort. As I started my replies, I heard a familiar noise from across the room.
“You got it!”
The tinny, condescendingly enthusiastic exclamation had come out of a handheld multiplication practice game I kept for the slower students. It had always been Cody’s favorite, probably because he felt proud to have mastered it, but he tended to leave it lying on the floor, rather than putting it back in the basket.
“What the hell?” I thought, as I clicked on the next e-mail, a district memo, stating that our semester grades were due the week Christmas break began — I had three days left to get them all entered.
“You got it!” squawked the game.
Annoyed, I walked across the classroom and picked it up from the floor. “Level Three!” it shrieked as I flipped the switch to the off position and tossed it in the basket where it belonged.
As is usual the week before Christmas break, not a great deal of learning was taking place, and on Thursday afternoon I set the kids up to watch a video about the lifecycle of the frog and went to finish up my semester grades — besides, nothing we did between now and Christmas would affect their grades. With a sense of accomplishment, I clicked “Finalize,” only to be greeted with a red asterisk, demanding I complete the entry for “Student: Cody _______.” With a sigh, I entered “I - Incomplete,” a little sad at the realization he’d never raise his average, but I reminded myself it wouldn’t matter because he wasn’t going to receive a report card.
Christmas break came and went too quickly, as it does every year. About a week after we returned, I was asked to cover cafeteria duty for an aide who had to leave unexpectedly. I didn’t usually get stuck with cafeteria duty, but I didn’t mind filling in now and then. I looked around and saw Cody’s usual seat was empty. Cody’s peer group, the “baby” boys, had never filled it, their own tribute to their absent friend. The senior cafeteria worker standing nearby saw me staring and said softly, “Those boys always leave a seat for Cody. Most precious thing I ever saw.” I smiled grimly and said, “They grieve in their own way.”
At recess, I kept an eye on the baby boys. As usual, they were playing ninjas, which mostly involved running around and falling dramatically. “Aagh, I’m hit!” moaned Dalton as he carefully collapsed to the dirt. “Ninja One got you!” taunted Shawn as he ran past. Dalton miraculously recovered and chased after Shawn.
"Ninja Four, Power of Water, BLAST!" cried Dalton as he shoved his palms toward Ricky. Ricky wobbled backwards, shouting, "Ninja Two, Power of Rock," which appeared to provide him some defense. I let my mind wander as I watched the three of them dash through the clover, narrating Ninja One through Fours’ actions. I jumped when my fellow teacher blew the recess whistle.
"Alright, ninjas, time to line up," I called to the group. They briefly huddled before joining the class in line at the playground gate. We stopped for a water and bathroom break before we headed back to our room. As they stood in line at the water fountain, I noticed a Ninja One-sized gap between Ricky and the boy ahead of him in line. If anyone was likely to linger in the denial stage of grieving a little too long, it was the babies. I gave Ricky a light squeeze, smiling as I walked towards the end of the line. There was a sort of saccharine charm in their tribute, even though I knew I was probably reading too much into it.
In a general sense, things were very much returning to normal; most of the kids seemed to take Cody’s death as well as could be expected, but of course, kids are pretty resilient. I had spent some time on community-building and class discussions to try to help reconfigure my flock into a new shape that was one person short.
The only issue was the unclaimed papers. Without daily prodding to check through the nameless papers at the board, kids don’t tend to keep very good track of what they’re missing. As a consequence, the papers tend to linger a bit — the ones with poor grades lingering the longest. Still, they’re usually claimed eventually, and I couldn’t help but notice some fairly old assignments taped to the board, and new ones were added every week. On the other hand, this group was doing pretty well, grades-wise, and it wasn’t a pressing issue.
Our school’s focus had returned to the urgent push forward through the textbooks, the sprint towards the yearly tests, with plenty of time-squandering evaluations to gauge their progress. The second half of the year is always a blur of interruptions, activities, ceremonies, and celebrations, not to mention the weekly practices leading up to each. Amidst the juggle is an effort to keep them engaged academically and to help them prepare for the increased accountability they’ll face in middle school.
By February, the entire school was devoted to the upcoming tests; there were practice exams, multiple choice strategy guides, flash cards, and PowerPoint Jeopardy games as we teachers tried to keep our mounting stress under control. Our school’s prior year’s test scores were below the state average, and we needed to show a certain percentage of growth to avoid sanctions. There were weekly “Target Student” identification meetings, where the grade level teachers meet with the principal to discuss which students to focus instruction on, open threats of our test scores following us for the remainder of our teaching careers, and data aggregation galore. It was, and still is, the only thing I hate about my job. During these early years, testing time would turn me into a mental and physical wreck, to the point that my coworker caught me vomiting behind the library when the superintendent stopped in to observe the new teachers.
"You can’t let it get to you like this." I looked up, wiped my mouth, and saw Julie, the other 5th grade teacher. "Well, how am I supposed to be a good teacher when all of this bullshit is being crammed onto my kids?" "I know," she said gently, "but you have to realize that the test scores are never going to be as important to the kids as they are to the administration. You just have to stay positive and know that they’ll do their best. All the kids care about is passing fifth grade and going to middle school. It’s the only thing that matters to them, their only goal. Besides, they’ll pick up on your stress."
She was right. I’m certain the kids were feeling my frustration. I had lost my temper the day before when no one would confess to leaving a daily mess of pencil shavings. “But Ms. Williams,” they whined, “we all have mechanical pencils.” “Well, you’d better get some regular number twos before the test,” I snapped. They snickered and giggled, “Number twos.” I stormed off and rolled my eyes.
Testing came and went, and I had a month left to teach the way I wanted. We had a science lesson at a local pond, did art twice a week, and spent a day making kites while we watched NASA videos. The yearbook had a nice page dedicated to Cody, and our class pitched in to buy a bench in his name at the front of the school.
The week after school ended, I saw Cody’s mom downtown. We spoke about the bench, about what Cody would have liked in middle school, and her son, Kyle, who was entering third grade. “I’d like him to be in your class someday,” she said, “Cody always liked you so much. You know, he said even if he had to repeat fifth grade, he wanted to stay in your class forever.”
I spent the summer, like a lot of young teachers, slightly drunk while planning the next year. What worked? What didn’t? What might be fun to try? Should I paint the math cabinet?
The weekend before school started, I walked through the humid morning air to my portable to prepare it for a new group of doe-eyed fifth graders. As I pushed open the door, a cyclone of pretty weeds and flowers swirled and fell around my desk. In the middle of it stood a folded index card. It read: “To the best teacher ever. I’ll never give up.” Of course, there was no name.
—
Credits to: Ms_Williams
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