A Month of Reflection: Day Twenty One
I wish I had some thought out reason for why this story is what I feel called to share today, but it just is. So I hope it makes you feel or think or something.
Aren’t teachers a weird thing? At least teachers in elementary and middle schools here in the U.S. Like they are this adult that we are introduced to as an all-knowing, omnipotent ruler of our classrooms. Who we love because they care for us, but we can’t love them too much or you’re the weird kid. And who we can’t not like because they are our teacher. It just…maybe it’s just me actually. Maybe my perceptive of authority figures is just so…fractured.
I would wait from the 1st day of August until the letter finally came, usually around the 20th, from school that would tell us our teachers for the upcoming school year. I would be so stressed about making a good first impression, but also not caring too much, because that’s not what really matters!
Then I would spend the whole year trying to understand this person, how they feel, how they are doing, what they are thinking, what they need. Mostly, what do they think of me? Am I doing good enough? Am I smart enough? Have I been impressive? Am I being too silly? Should I be silly and just be a kid?
I am having a bit of an existential crisis of the severity of how truly in depth this goes back in terms of how much I cared and invested into my teachers. I want to communicate it well, but it is new for me too so bear with me.
When I entered a classroom and became a member of that class, irregardless of logical, the teacher of that class became my parent. Which placed me in the role of “best friend”, in my head. Parentification of self to any and all authority figures. I thought that was what I do?
My first grade teacher, I remember deeply desiring to connect to her and have her think I was doing well. Where it gets…to be a mental illness, is that I required validation and had unrealistic needs to be filled by someone in that position. But I truly couldn’t comprehend what a teacher was. That they were just a teacher. It had to be deeper than that. It had to matter more, for a whole year I see them everyday and try for them and fall in love with them. Then I lose them.
There was a point though, in school, where it got more confusing. The requirements of being kid were one thing, while the requirements of being student were another. They did not always align so I would slip and someone somewhere would get let down.
If I failed at being a kid that usually meant I was being embarrassing and weird. Like how in 5th grade I would make up excuses to just go stand next to my teachers desk because she was so nice to me and let me talk to her and listen to her. But I wanted to stand next to her and my desk was on the other side, and she was my friend, but she sat me over there…so I would walk to her desk to ask a question. Forget and walk back.
Over. And over. And over. In fifth grade.
I was a weird kid.
If I failed at being a good student it usually was me feeling like I had disappointed my parents. Like in 11th grade when I cheated in Advanced Chemistry and when I got caught and Mr. Irby confronted me I just told him I wanted to quit the class and then I avoided his room for the remainder of my school career. I also avoided his street which was right by mine and where my mother and I used to walk. And I avoided the routed he biked to school. I punished myself forever.
I was a bad student.
In my array of teachers I did have some incredible ones that I really did learn a lot from. Some of what I learned was school stuff, though to be honest, who knows how much I remember from my primary education. What stuck with me more though were some very…hard life lessons. One I just understood today. I just clicked.
In 6th grade I had Mr. X, which was awesome because:
male teachers are WAY more fun and don’t care
my brother had him and they were close
Number 2 didn’t actually work out in my favorite, it actually created a wild anxiety in me comparing myself and my brother not only academically, but also in Mr. X’s eyes.
Our class was awesome. I sat at a group set, we were like a family in itself. Me, Jess, Pat, Dan…maybe someone else but us four were solid like a rock. Anyways, it was a year that sticks out to me in a lot of ways for a lot of reasons, but shockingly really only one major thing about Mr. X. At some point towards the end of the year we were reading a book maybe? God, I wish I could remember what exactly was the reason that prompted him to share this story…fuck. Maybe some day it will come to me.
Mr. X. got rather serious and wanted to tell us something…
Honestly, if I remember right I think it was unprompted. I think maybe he just said this is something he shares with his students.
Mr. X. sat on his desk, like a cool male teacher does, and told us about his sister. He had a sister who was disabled. I can’t recollect her exact situation, but she was wheelchair bound and unable to use it herself. He told us about how one day he took his sister for a walk and while they were going along they eventually reached the crest of a hill and the most horrible thing happened. He pushed her down it. She had her seatbelt in and it was bad. She survived and it had no “lasting” effects, he shared with us that he was consoled with the fact that she will probably never remember it anyways. Mr. X. was very emotional by this point as he shared that he however, has remembered. And always will.
There was a time when I would look back at that story and think, “what a weirdly intense story to tell a bunch of kids”. I don’t know though. Today I just kind of…understood what a 6th grader is. Who I was in 6th grade. I didn’t know it then, but I really needed an adult to tell me they had made really bad, horrible, dub mistakes that have no…reason. But that it’s been okay. Because we are fucking human.
We’re all just human. We all deserve kindness and forgiveness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean access. It means releasing the painful feelings you carry. I think that means bringing those feelings back up when you know that doing so could make an impact.
It did. Mr. X., your story has lived with me for the passed 19 years.
Kids need to see that adults are humans too. They aren’t that scary, they are just trying.
Wow I didn’t think this would get me this emotional. I am going to stop it there.
I love you, as always please check out the links below! And be kind, mostly to yourself. You deserve it.
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