Each year, I get a little better at understanding
what it means to support my students. My first year, I had no clue. I thought that
to be a good teacher I would just need to be like Michelle Pfeiffer in
Dangerous Minds; that if I handed out candy bars and told my students that they matter, they would instantly cooperate and do whatever I ask.
(No offense, Hollywood, but that’s
a ton of crap.)
Now that I have the teaching
thing more under control, I’m able to support my students as people. I look
forward to their concerts for choir, orchestra, and band. I love seeing the artwork
they create. I’m always psyched for the night of the talent show and the school
plays. But sports games are another story.
You see, I work in a district whose
neighborhoods represent a variety of income brackets. Some schools in the district are a part of one of the country’s wealthiest zip codes. Other
schools, Title I schools like mine, are in a different part of town and have a high
percentage of students labeled at-risk and on free or reduced lunch. When my
school’s sports teams play against schools similar to ours, it’s usually fine. But
sometimes when we play the more wealthy schools, it’s difficult for me to be
there on the sidelines.
A few weeks ago, some of my
students on the boys’ basketball team asked if I would come to their game that evening. I told
them I would, then asked who they were playing.
“Woodridge!” they told me. “We’re
going to beat them this year, Miss!”
My heart sank.
Woodridge Middle School (which is
not actually the school’s name), is the wealthiest school in the district. They
consistently have the highest test scores, the greatest amount of parent
involvement and financial support, and easily the best sports teams. I can
count the number of times I have seen or heard of our teams beating theirs on
one hand.
“I’ll be there!” I told them. I
gave them a thumbs-up.
After they left, I let out a sigh. My
boys were so excited, and I’d already told them I would go. I did want to
support them and let them know how much I value them and their interests, but I already dreaded going. I knew what would await me.
I knew I would see the look on my students’
faces as they stole glances at the other team warming up. They would see their
brand-new shoes. Their effortless lay-ups from years of playing in community
leagues, their camaraderie from knowing each other since kindergarten because
they don’t move as much as the families at my school do.
I knew I would see the Woodridge side
of the bleachers full—parents, grandparents, siblings, and
students who were able to have their parents drop them back off at school just to see the game. I would look at our side
of the bleachers and see about half as many people there. I would know that one
of our players’ mom works the night shift and will never see a game. I would
know that less than half of our players would ever have both parents there
cheering them on.
I knew I would hear the parents of the
other team grumbling—sometimes quietly, sometimes belligerently-- about my
students’ fouls, their lack of sportsmanship, and I would know that they are right,
and I would wish that these parents could understand that these kids aren't bad or scary but are learning.
I knew I would hear one particularly loud
Woodridge parent yell something like, “What are you doing, ref? Are you just
going to let number 55 stomp all over our boys?” and I would see number 55, my
student, and he would hear it, and I would see his face tense up with a rage
that know runs much deeper than this basketball game and I would see him miss
all his free throws after that.
I knew I would watch Woodridge take the
lead by ten points, then twenty, then fifty. Then I would see the Woodridge coach
call a time-out, and in the huddle all his players would smile suddenly, and I would know
that the coach had just told his players that they have to stop scoring.
Then after that I knew I would see a Woodridge
player make a lay-up, and his point guard would shout, “Hey, coach said we’re
not supposed to score!” and the other player would shout back, “What am I
supposed to do, just give it to them?”,
and I would see the look on my players’ faces as this exchange would happen.
Then I knew I would go up to my students
after the game. I would say, “Hey, you did great!”
and they would hang their heads and mumble something, and they would all look
like their spirits had been punctured, and I would get a lump in my throat because
I would know how much this game meant to them, and they would know that I was saying
what I was saying to make them feel better.
I knew these things because it
always happens. Every year, year after year, every game when we play teams like
this.
And I hate watching it. When I go
to games where we play Woodridge or schools similar to them, I distract myself
from what’s going on around me by being obnoxiously upbeat to the point where I
often annoy myself. I bring posters. I yell things about sports that don’t make
any sense (i.e. “GET THIS REBOUND, WOLVERINES!” when it’s about to be the first
shot of a set of two free throws.) I do
this in the hope that their crazy, screaming teacher will, by comparison, make
losing feel just a little less embarrassing.
I should be clear that I’m not
trying to say I hate going to games because of Woodridge, or that this is Woodridge’s fault. They are not bad people—the coaches,
the parents, the players. In fact, I went to a school like Woodridge and I very
much value my education and childhood there. I don’t hate Woodridge. And I don’t
hate the fact that my students lose.
I hate poverty.
I hate the systems in place that are keeping
down neighborhoods like the one where I teach.
I hate that my students have less
of a chance—at everything—because of circumstances they can’t help.
I hate how their sports games
remind me of all of this.
And most of all, I hate that I don’t
know what to do about it except to keep teaching in my little classroom, to
keep hoping things get better, to keep showing up, and to keep being loud.
We actually beat Woodridge in
that game a few weeks ago. It was a nailbiter—I’m pretty sure it took a couple
of years off my life—but we came out on top. My boys were true sportsmen, in
every sense of the word. When I talked to them after the game, they didn’t say
anything negative about the other team, or the Woodridge fans being vocal at
the refs (and on some occasions, at them), or even about winning. In fact, they could barely say
anything because of how huge their smiles were. The second I got into my car in
the parking lot, I put my head in my hands and cried.
It felt like I’d just had a small
taste of the world I dream of.
Love,
Teach
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