Life’s Not Fair
Teaching is a twenty-four hour a day job. An effective
teacher reflects on each aspect of her teaching in every waking moment of her
life. She reflects while driving to and from school. She ponders while cooking
dinner, doing the laundry and mopping the floor. She even wakes up at three in
the morning to agonize over a bad choice or remember a precious moment.
When I began teaching, I thought I was going to be teaching
lessons to students. As the years went by, I very wisely switched to teaching
children, not lessons. I tried to find out just what these particular children
needed and to provide it for them in the way it will be most beneficial to
them.
I learned as many lessons as I have taught. Some were school
lessons. Students amaze me with their creativity, insights and leaps of
understanding. They are artists, poets and mathematicians. They take risks. They
want to learn.
Some were life lessons. Students reach out to others who are
hurting, confused or angry. They cheer each other on in challenging tasks,
congratulate a winner and console a loser. They pat a shoulder. They share a
smile. They put their hearts into all they do and they try and try and try. They
are full of surprises.
Sammy and Jay were always in trouble. They spent more time
in the principal’s office than on the playground. They sat right behind the bus driver. Every
teacher knew their names.
Both these guys had been late comers to my little community.
Both had learning issues and both had tough little lives. They never stopped
talking and they never sat still. I said their names a hundred times a day. They
just about wore me out. But one day, Sammy and Jay taught me a lesson I will
never forget.
We were standing in line ready to head for the playground. It
was a really hot day and I had promised the children that if we finished all
our work, we would go out for extra recess and ice pops. They had worked hard
and we were ready for our treat. I sent a messenger down to retrieve the ice
pops I had put in the freezer.
At home that morning, I had counted out just enough ice pops
for the class throwing in one more for good measure. But when my messenger returned
with the bag, it felt a little light. I stopped and counted. We were one ice
pop short.
“Oh no,” I thought. “What am I going to do? I turned to the kids fidgeting in line and
said, “We have a problem, boys and girls. We are one ice pop short. If we are
going to have ice pops today, someone is going to have to share.”
There was a nervous shuffling. Everyone wanted a whole ice
pop.
In the back of the line, I noticed a small motion. Slowly,
Sammy raised his hand.
The children looked relieved, but I had to clarify, “It’s
nice of you to volunteer Sammy, but we need someone else who will be willing to
split the ice pop with you.”
Heads turned and nervous muttering arose. Then, Jay raised his
hand.
Those two raised hands stand tall in my memories. And when three a.m. rolls around, and I start
worrying, I review moments like this and slip into sweeter dreams.
