Life's Not Fair

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.