I might argue that I have the best job in the world. I might also argue that I have a horrible job because it’s heart-wrenching on its worst days. There’s not always a great deal of appreciation for the work and it’s far more than what I normally discuss in general when talking about schools and education. The educationese we speak centers around best teaching practices, targeting students, systems of operations within the school, student modifications, assessment data, and a slew of other things that normally make my friends roll their eyes when I start talking about them. But what I know for sure is that when I speak passionately about students that those stories come to life. In the last decade I’ve met some characters in my career and some of those students would never know how much they have affected and changed me in the process.

Stories of my students could fill a book. These are some of my favorites, even if I’d had disappointing dealings with them:

Donnie is a bear of a student. Huge. He’s overweight by about 100 pounds. In the years I’ve known him he’s overturned a table in a classroom and punched an office wall. He’s a chronic class avoider and has the perfect plan for getting out of class. First, he refuses to bring materials for class which is the easiest way to avoid work. Then, he likes to use language that gets him kicked out of class. Finally, he’ll just resort to scary behavior that makes people want him to be far away so that they can actually teach. Several times I’ve just been so incredibly upset with him that I’ve said, “You’re exasperating, you know that? You make me work TOO hard sometimes. IT’S LIKE YOU WANT TO GIVE ME GRAY HAIR.” Donnie’s mom is the most sweet-voiced tiny woman I’ve ever met. When I talk to her on the phone I always have to remember that she’s my biggest ally in dealing with him, but I also am reminded that she’s lived a tough life on the streets as is evidenced by the visible tattoos I’ve read on her skin. She can calm him down in a magical way. Even now I can’t see what contribution he will make as a citizen of the world and it’s not for lack of trying on the part of many many teachers. He does a strange thing. Perhaps it’s mostly strange because of what I know about his brusque nature. He hugs me. He hugs me completely out of the blue. I never know what to make of it but I always walk away shaking my head and fighting off tears and the growth of new gray hairs.

Cole has Asperger’s syndrome. There is a special place in my heart for kids with Asperger’s and I think I was blessed with an extra measure of patience for talking to those kids. Cole does this thing that’s kind of funny: when he walks around school he stops occasionally to sniff a wall. It’s bizarre, but the nice thing is that he is protected by the other students. Once, when I was supervising a roomful of kids there was a new student in there who didn’t know Cole or his eccentricities. A girl, normally rough and tough, yelled at this new kid when he started walking around behind Cole mimicking Cole’s behavior. “Hey, don’t fuck with Cole!” There was really nothing else to do but pretend I didn’t hear her use bad language in front of me. Luckily, it was noisy enough that I could get away with that. Those were the protective thoughts I was having anyway, even if it was unprofessional of me to think them. But the mother in me wanted to reach out to that other kid and say the same thing. There’s just something about kids like Cole that bring out the best in people even if it doesn’t look like the prettiest, shiniest, kindest part of humanity.

Boyd can’t read. It’s as simple as that. I’ve only taught in middle or high schools my entire career with a few short stints as an intern in elementary schools so it’s with much trepidation that I blame his Kindergarten through fifth grade teachers for not teaching him to recognize letters and put together blends. Of course it’s not their fault. But there are at least six teachers who had the opportunity to do just that: teach him to read. There’s much research to support the theory that three bad teachers in a consecutive row can leave a child in educational ruins and Boyd appears to have lived that in practice. He comes without materials so teachers offer them to him. Then, he asks to go to the office or wonders if he shouldn’t be in the in-house suspension room because he can’t do the work. That part is simple. He can’t do it. He can’t even articulate well that the can’t. He grunts and giggles at the most inappropriate times. Laughter isn’t always called for, so I can only assume that Boyd is nervous and uncomfortable with being asked the most basic of questions. He can’t answer these questions: What do you want to do after you get out of school? What kind of job do you hope to have? Boyd believes he’ll just live at home and he’s not getting a sense of urgency from his family to do something. But, by God, the state tests will judge us based on whether or not he can read. His sense of apathy is astounding. Most days I want to take him home with me and other times I want to pull out my own hair when I learn that the expectations for him set by whomever (I dare not blame this entirely on his family. I know better than that.) have been low for a long time. Goals mean nothing to him. My words are empty when he hears them.

Stacy can’t understand why I stay on her case. If you asked her, she would say that I have nothing better to do than pick on her. She’s relatively quiet, keeps to herself and her small group of friends, and doesn’t feel like working any harder than she currently is. When she passes me in the hallway she has different reactions to me. Sometimes, it’s disgust. Others, it’s a playful nature. Truthfully, Stacy can’t figure out why I care so much. I’m not one to put students on blast, but I’ve been known to raise my voice enough to warrant a WARNING! WARNING! THE CONTENTS IN THIS HEAD MAY EXPLODE AT ANY TIME. PLEASE STAND BACK. She found this out the hard way and once we got settled and our voices reached a level where we could converse, all was well. I have that girl in the palm of my hand now. I can’t believe I got it that way. Normally, I pour on way more sugar than is required.

Dawn has been a gem to watch grow. Not only does she try hard and do well in her classes, she’s in extracurriculars like band and cheerleading and student government. Each time I come in contact with her, it’s nice. Just nice. She’s got the warm greetings down to a science. Her cheery smile can light up the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. A few times a semester she comes to check on her class rank (even though she knows by now, after my many talks with her, that it only changes at the end of each semester) and pours over her grades with me. “Oh, I knew I should have studied harder for that test! I could have gotten a higher percentage.” I don’t have to do any prodding with Dawn to get her to be a better student. But giving her attention feels good. I won’t lie – there’s an incredibly fulfilling sense of giving Dawn just the tiniest bit of my time. She makes it last until the next time. It’s what I thought all my relationships would be like with students. Dawn is a model student for anyone, but I feel lucky to get to reach out to her in a small way. I remember, when I’m with her, why I spent four years in undergrad.