It's Not Their Fault

I often think about the people who have molded me into the person I am today. Like most of us, I look to those people - consider what they would do - when I encounter difficult situations. When I catch myself reacting on impulse, passing judgement, or not giving a matter the time it deserves, I feel their presence - nagging at me to take a step back, to consider things through their eyes, to make them proud. I could list each of them here. I could write an entire blog about them and it still wouldn't be enough. But last night, as I sat on the sidelines coaching basketball, surrounded by people from a background that could not be more different from my own, I found myself needing to tap into the wisdom of my role models.

Our game last night was against Holly Springs, a town about 15 minutes from where I teach. Prior to the game we were warned to be alert to potential fights (between kids or parents) because Holly Springs is not only our rival, but it's also a school district that is notorious around north Mississippi. As a community it is plagued with gang activity and poverty. We teach summer school there, and often times the most insubordinate, disrespectful, and low-performing kids come from right down the street.

As I sat and observed the kids, siblings, teachers, and parents at the game last night, I caught myself passing judgement on nearly every one of them. He looks like a thug. I bet she doesn't discipline her child. He probably over-disciplines his child. Why is she wearing that outfit at a school function? These adults are terrible examples for their kids. And then the big one... THIS is why our kids don't know how to act.


I'm not going to lie and say that thoughts like these have been rare for me over the last year and a half. What I can say is that I usually try to catch myself. I try to put things in perspective. Last night I certainly realized how awful I was being, and different thoughts slowly began taking over. Stop it, Andrea. They can't help it. This all they know. Just look at this as an exercise in perspective. You can learn from this... 

We won two of the three games. The third one was one of the most exciting basketball games I've been a part of. We won by two at the buzzer and while I was caught up in the joy of the moment, I almost failed to realize that the opposing sides were chanting back and forth, screaming things that never would have been acceptable in Dublin, Ohio. People were yelling at the kids on the court, at each other, at the referees. The coaches were instructed to usher everyone out as quickly as possible in hopes of avoiding an all out brawl. We successfully got the other teams on the bus and all of the fans out the door.

As I was walking out of the gym to leave for the night, shaking my head at the craziness, I happened to glance down the dark main hallway. There was just a sliver of light leaking through the office door, so I almost didn't notice one of my players standing there. She had her face in her hands and had clearly been crying. After some prodding, she managed to tell me that she had no ride home. She was clearly embarrassed. Again, angry thoughts filled my head. What is wrong with these PARENTS? 

"Do you know anyone else's phone number?" I asked.

"No ma'am. My brother is the only other one but he doesn't have a phone."

"How far away do you live?"

"It's about 30 minutes."

"Ok let's go. You're alright." I said it with the calmest tone I could muster. The situation wasn't her fault. It also wasn't her fault that I wouldn't get home until 10, and it definitely wasn't her fault that her mom forgot to come to the game. As we walked out to my car she wouldn't stop apologizing. I put my arm around her and firmly told her to stop. I told her this was my job. I told her she played well and that we should talk about that instead.

I'll save you my rant on generational poverty and it's effects on education/the lives of my students. It's something I've thought a lot about and if I allow myself too much time I get overwhelmed. It's just such a huge obstacle. I see it every day in the attitudes of my students and their parents. In poverty stricken communities, there seem to be no role models - and I'm certainly not crazy enough to think that driving a girl home makes me one. What I can hope is that she remembers nights like this when she raises her own children... and maybe if there are enough nights like last night, some of my kids can break the cycle for themselves.

What I really pulled away from the evening was this: my judgements won't do a thing to help myself or my students. I am lucky enough to have had role models who taught me better. I am lucky enough to have grown up in a fantastic school district with some of this country's best teachers. My parents, family, friends, and coaches instilled in me certain values that most of the people last night have not even been exposed to - and it's not their fault. 

"We Thought You Was Prissy"

I have my final class of the semester tomorrow and while I'm finding it hard to be excited about it right now, I know that tomorrow at 5pm I will be a new woman. Ahhh... I can't wait. Before I tackle my heaps of work for the night though, I'm choosing to keep the promise I made to myself. I'm gonna blog.

For my educational research class I was required to conduct some sort of research study with my students as subjects. Our only real requirement was that we ask a question, acquire the answer, and analyze how that answer would affect our future teaching. As a result of my severe aversion to any kind of math - statistics, data, all of it - I chose to go the qualitative route. I asked a few questions: Why are some student-teacher rapports good from the beginning while others aren’t? Is it more than a mere difference in personalities? How big of a role do preconceived notions about race, gender, age, or even regional origin play?

I'm not going to bore you with the results. They were as obvious as you would expect. What I do feel is worthy of sharing are some of the answers the kids gave me. As they often have the ability to do, they got me laughing pretty hard today.

Q: What was your first impression of me?
A: We thought you was a nerd for real. You always be talking all nerdy and lame and stuff and be correcting EVERYTHING we say. We also thought you were gonna be snooty because of the way you held your coffee cup and crossed your legs and stuff. We thought you was gonna be prissy, too.

At that I had to laugh. Me? Prissy? The horror!


Q: Did the fact that I was young, white, or not from around here affect the way you approached my class?
A: No... well... yeah... well a little. We thought since you was young you would be crunk. We also thought we'd be able to do whatever we wanted... we was wrong. You tried to be so mean... but I guess that was good because some folks tried to take advantage of you.

Q: Why do you think some kids didn't click with me from the beginning while others never had problems?
A: Ms. B, you know these kids ain't got no home training.
Q: So it had nothing to do with my personality or classroom rules?
A: Maybe a little... but anyone who has home training knows that there has to be rules. Some people thought you had attitude. Your attitude ain't nothing compared to ours though, so that was alright.

Q: Were you ever intimidated by me?
A: Psh... not at first because of the way you looked. But we learned pretty quick that you was kinda bad. You know, how you played golf and everything...
Q: You thought I was bad, like the good kind of bad?
A: Yeah.
Q: Because I played golf??
A: Yeah!

Oh the things they choose to focus on....... thanks for the laughs today, guys.

I don't know what to write so I'll write about the leaves

Lately I've been negative and I don't like it. Sure, I'm exhausted, fed up, stressed, worried, maybe even unhappy. Every once in a while, like all of us (I hope), I get into these slumps. I'm pretty sure I have reasonable cause. I have a lot on my plate, but what I sometimes fail to remind myself is that it's all by choice. Some aren't so lucky. This recent shift in my psyche is due to nothing more than my own failings. One failing, really. I've been failing to see the good stuff.

So today, on my way home from yet another day where I failed to stop and appreciate something, anything about my life, I looked for the first beautiful thing I could find... Kudzu? Not this time of year. Abandoned trailers? Negative. The log truck I was stuck behind? No, all that managed to evoke were scenes from Final Destination.

The leaves? Yes.

Luckily it has been warm enough down here that the leaves are only just now starting to fall. Gorgeous hues of orange, auburn, red, even violet still grace the trees that line the rugged two-lane road I travel every day. Today I noticed them for the first time. My 45-minute commute usually feels like five... five short minutes filled with thoughts from my day, a game plan for work in the evening, concerns about certain students, parents, administrators... and oh yeah, the graduate course work that I've placed beyond the back burner. It is becoming unhealthy.

I pulled over. Just stopped. I rested my chin on the steering wheel and stared, trying to count every single color I could find in those LEAVES! Six. I counted six different colors. Magnificent.

Those two minutes felt like an eternity, but before I knew it my practical side began taking back over. I realized it probably wasn't safe to sit on the side of a narrow country road with a shoulder barely wide enough to host my little two-door Honda. My practical side tried to say that it was foolish to waste time, foolish to pull over, foolish to think that something like counting leaves would actually do me any good. Don't worry, my passionate side won. It did a world of good.  I started to laugh at my own insanity. Who does this?? An outsider would've thought I was a mad person. But the truth is... if I don't do things like that from time to time... that's mad.

I took this picture with my phone tonight... Mississippi has some of the most beautiful sunsets I've seen.

Selective Apathy

"How do I seem so relaxed?" I repeated the question asked to me by a classmate last winter... "It's a little concept I like to call selective apathy."

While my brilliant, Harvard graduate classmate had no problem understanding what I meant, he cocked his head, signaling that I should elaborate.

I went on to explain that I had learned not to let every little thing get to me. Students were going to misbehave, they were going to refuse to do their homework, they were going to struggle with lessons I had spent hours crafting. I told him that if I didn't choose to be selectively apathetic, I would drive myself insane... like he was. I know what the connotation of apathy is. I see it every day out of people at my school. Part of me was being facetious. Part of me was being dead serious. Most of me was lying in an attempt to find a solution for my friend who seemed to be falling apart in front of my eyes due to the pressure of this job.

In all honesty, I was good at letting certain things slide off last year. I guess I knew myself well enough to know that I over-analyze EVERYTHING, so in order to keep myself sane, I had to ignore some things. I had to throw my hands up and trust that everything would just work out, and for the most part it did.

Somehow this year has become a different story. I've been trying to heed my own advice and tap into that surprisingly wise mantra that I stumbled upon last year. Part of the problem may be that I know I don't have that "She's a first-year teacher" excuse I would've been able to claim had something truly gone wrong last year. I think most of the problem, however, is that I've changed. I've made no secret of the fact that I have grown over this past year. I question things more, I argue more, I expect more, I want more... out of myself... out of my students... out of my colleagues. Unfortunately I seem to be getting less out of everyone. I'm driving myself nuts and wearing myself out trying to make things perfect. Last night it took me four hours to fold two loads of laundry because I kept dozing off. Today at work I was exhausted. I was not a good teacher. A friend told me that it was ok to take some "me time" because it made me better at my job, but something about that seems counter-intuitive.

What I do know is this: I have students who need me. They have parents who don't meet their needs. And we all live in a world where, unfortunately, there is so much bureaucracy, so much red tape, so many rules, requirements, and ineffective but mandatory procedures, that those of us who want to step outside of it all are stymied. How can I take a day to relax, spend a day at the coffee shop, when obviously I am not doing enough?

Let me stop here.

I know this sounds cliche and irrational. Just one more teacher who thinks she can save the world, right?

I'm not so naive as to think that I can (or even have the right to) change things. But I don't think it's too much to ask for me to be allowed to simply help when I want to. At least I know I'd get a little more sleep if they'd let me try.

A student came to me today, one who I've been trying to mentor over the last month or so. She's brilliant. She's well-behaved. She has a tough home life to say the least. She's crying out for someone to help her... and I can't. All I can do is sit and listen. I can recommend that she go talk to our counselor - our one counselor for 1100 kids. Today she told me she thinks she's pregnant. Trying to hide the fact that I was devastated for her, I steadied my voice and asked her if she was sure. She spelled out for me, with extreme clarity and candor, how she had made a big mistake, how she's so nervous she can't function. She's 13 years old.

Without disclosing her name or too much about the situation, I went to ask my assistant principal what I could do.

"Nothing," she said. "In fact right now, you could get in a lot of trouble for simply having that information and not telling her parents. Tell her she needs to tell them or you will."

I can't do that. I can't just sit back and watch her go through this alone. I can't betray her trust. I can't do anything.

As I sit typing this blog, I'm aware that it's a heavy subject. I'm aware that it's something most people don't want to read... so I guess it's good I only have 6 followers :) It does feel good to get it out though. I know I can't do anything about it tonight, or tomorrow, or maybe not even for a couple weeks. I'll figure something out, I'll talk her through it. Until that time comes, I guess I'll try to recapture that selective apathy I had mastered last year, but it's sad that the system leaves me no other option.

No Use in Putting On a Mask

My favorite bookstore, Square Books

Over the weekend I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Good book. I succeeded in my goal of finishing it before the movie comes out, but unfortunately my current schedule is not one that allows me to spend an entire day in a coffee shop just reading. I did it anyway... and I'm now behind in everything, including my goal of blogging every night. To make matters worse, I put off grading again tonight so I could go to the legendary Square Books in Oxford to buy the next installment in the trilogy. We'll just call it the latest step in my endless and fruitless pursuit of momentary happiness. At this point, these pursuits are probably causing more than relieving stress because I'm becoming an epic procrastinator in the name of happiness... but that is not my topic tonight.

My friend dropped me off at the door because there was no parking to be found and, as is consistent with most things I do, I was in and out of Square Books in a matter of seconds. I knew exactly where I needed to go and I'm a regular at the store so I read off my frequent reader number and was back out the door in no time.

The middle school version of myself would have been ashamed that I had forgotten tonight was Halloween. Standing outside the book store I noticed for the first time the scene around me. On the lawn of the church, the sea of pumpkins that had been there a week ago had given way to throngs of 3-foot skeletons, Power Rangers, and witches. Pumpkin-shaped buckets seemingly bobbed unattached in the dark as parents eyed nervously the oncoming cars of college kids, I guess like me, who clearly had better things to do than stay at home and pass out candy. A sentry in the middle of the square, the courthouse stood poised, illuminated for the occasion. I've admired this building for five years now. Its antebellum facade with beautiful white columns, long, single-pane windows, and pristine lawn guarded by a black wrought iron fence provide the perfect picture of a time long past.

Getting back in the car, my friend was the first to say it. 

"There are a lot of black families out here tonight."

Sitting next to her, in the passenger seat of my own car, I visibly cringed. "Huh?"

"I know... that sounds bad. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that......"

"Oxford is usually more segregated than this... I noticed it too," I finished.

"Yeah. Is it bad that I noticed?"

"It's bad that we have to," I said.

The courthouse in the center of the Oxford Square

As we crept around the courthouse on the inner track of the square, trying to avoid midget zombies and Harry Potters, I stared out my window at white families, black families, white kids, and black kids trick-or-treating, sharing laughs, and generally enjoying the night. It was a gorgeous, clear fall evening - about 60 degrees. The moon hung over us like a picture in a post card. There were a few tables for cider and face painting set up on the courthouse lawn. I noticed food being served by a black family. Next to them was the face painting station run by a white family. In that moment I caught myself in awe of how far the South had come. Right there, on the lawn of a building that stood and watched as racism threatened to destroy this country 150 years ago, white and black families were one, allowing their kids to play together, roam the square together, grow up together.

My pride was gone in an instant.

It didn't take me long to begin thinking about my students and how foreign this scene would have been for them. They are, after all, the reason I noticed it in the first place. Over the last year and half, my eyes have been opened to the fact that racism is still very alive in this part of the country... maybe everywhere. I used to grimace when I'd hear students say things like "that white girl" or "that black girl" as if they had no other identity. I was naive to think that my race wouldn't matter as much because I was a teacher and the title alone demanded respect... not in a community where few trust the other race and fewer trust the adults in their lives. By the end of October I had been called an ugly white bitch by one girl and others had made their distaste apparent in more subtle ways.

Since last year it has gotten better. Once they saw that I wasn't going to leave after one year I gained a little more trust. Once they realized I actually cared about them more than my paycheck (and yes they can tell) I gained a little respect. I can't help but feel like none of it means anything though. I can't help but feel like it's a battle too great for one teacher to wage. 

What's it matter if white and black families can celebrate one Halloween together on the Oxford square? That's a tiny microcosm of the real spectrum. This is a college town, perhaps the most liberal part of the state. Just 45 minutes north there are 130 seventh graders whose teacher will leave at the end of this year.  She'll be gone, confirming their original suspicions, completing the pattern their lives already reflect, solidifying mantras they've learned to live by. Don't trust adults. Don't trust the other guy.

The Dark Side

I have never written a single blog that was not mandatory. I can even go a little further and admit that until yesterday, I had approached every single blog with contempt for its compulsory and unnatural nature. Usually the prompts are dry and unimaginative, so unless I choose to put forth serious effort (the kind of effort for which I never have time) my writing is also dry and unimaginative.

That fact never bothered me until yesterday. I have certainly had plenty to worry about besides blogging, but as I sat down to write about my favorite student - another potentially cliche and awful prompt - I realized that I have so many memories, so many stories that have shaped who I am as a teacher, as a person, over the last year. These stories deserve to be told. So with a little guilt trip from myself, a little inspiration from a fellow blogger, and a lot of need for an emotional outlet, I've decided to do my best to record some of my experiences... at the very least so I have something to look back on when this crazy ride is over.

It hasn't been all sunshine and butterflies. Here goes.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about a student I had last year. He was two years behind so he should have been in the ninth grade. Physically he looked like he should have been a senior. He was tall, he shaved, his voice had changed, he wore size 12 shoes. At the beginning of the year, among his 7th grade classmates, John stood out.

As is my habit, I immediately found myself drifting towards John. I tend to have a soft spot for the "troubled" kids. I tend to see good in them that my fellow teachers don't. I am fully aware that this tendency often lends itself to frustration, disappointment, and even guilt... this case is no exception.

From the jump John was a behavior problem. He usually walked into my room laughing, joking around, kicking someone's heels. It became a daily occurrence for me to send him back out of the room and have him "Come in the right way." He carried a black and gold faux Gucci backpack that literally had not one binder, pen, pencil, or unused sheet of notebook paper inside it. Eventually I got so fed up that I made him a classwork folder that was never allowed to leave my room. He was to put his classwork in that folder every day... even if it wasn't finished. Homework was a losing battle. 

As the first couple months of school dragged by, John began getting in trouble more and more. He was never involved in fights. There was nothing malicious about him... he just joked around a lot and, because of his mature appearance and previous record, teachers automatically assumed the worst. He steadily began to accumulate referrals for things like doing backflips on the way back from lunch or flicking mashed potatoes. He was crying for attention.

As a naive and completely inexperienced teacher, I was at a loss for how to help him. He wasn't a dumb kid. In fact he was quite the opposite. He wrote with fluency and perspective equal to some of my honors kids. None of his friends knew he was smart and he did everything he could to keep it that way. I did everything I could to force him out from behind that facade. I knew I could cold call on him in class and, amid snickers of anticipated humiliation from his classmates, he always mumbled the correct answer... as if he was ashamed to betray his reputation. I would grin and move on, delighting in the shocked expressions on his classmates' faces.

When I began offering after-school tutoring I always made sure he stayed. No one was ever willing to come pick him up, so another teacher and I would drive him home or he would just walk. As I got to know him better, I found out that his mom was never home. She usually stayed at her boyfriend's house. His dad was in jail. His older sister dropped out of school after ninth grade, pregnant. He had a younger sister and it was usually his job to make her dinner in the evenings. To say the cards were stacked against him would be a gross understatement and to steal a phrase I used last night, John was devastatingly aware of his own reality. He didn't complain about it, he was more than willing to talk about it openly - in fact he did so with such unabashed candor that it sometimes made me feel uncomfortable.

By the time January rolled around, he had compiled so many referrals that the principal was at his wit's end. The 7th grade teachers received several emails about interventions we were supposed to make, strategies for curbing his behavior, and ultimatums John had been offered. Honestly, I began ignoring most of these suggestions.

One morning as I was standing on hallway duty before homeroom, I glanced into my classroom just in time to see a black and gold backpack fly full speed across my room. It smacked the wall with such force that a couple of girls screamed, including the one at whom it was aimed. My eyes locked with John's. He showed no remorse. He was laughing. I was livid.

Employing my best teacher voice, I demanded that he see me in the hall. Still smirking, he sauntered across the front of the room. Without even pausing for conversation, I motioned for him to follow me to the office. When we got there I pointed at a chair indicating the place for him sit and I began furiously scribbling the situation down on a referral. I left him and the referral with the secretary and went back to my room.

During my planning period I finally had time to read my email. As per usual, there was one from the principal. Subject: John. It was sent the previous afternoon.

Teachers,

John has officially been warned that he has one more strike. There are no spaces left in the alternative school, so the next time he is sent to the office, it will result in automatic expulsion for one calendar year. This has already been board approved.

I cannot adequately articulate the emotions I felt at that moment. To say I felt guilty doesn't even scratch the surface. I was instantly nauseated. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream... then I calmed myself. I knew I could undo this.

I half walked, half jogged to the office. The only person I could find was the assistant principal.

"I already know what you're going to say, Buccilla. And no... there's nothing you can do about it."

"But I didn't know he was on his last strike! It wasn't even that bad, he just threw a backpack... that's not grounds for expulsion... this will ruin his life."

The words sank between us. Silence.

"He had plenty of chances. It's not your fault. This was bound to happen."

I tried to plead my case for another couple of minutes. I was getting nowhere. Dejected, I walked back to my classroom, racking my brain for options. I could see none. I had ruined this kid's life.

I haven't seen John since that day. I have his younger sister in class this year. She is bright. She's above grade level. She wants to be different and we've talked about that. After a couple weeks of school I finally worked up the courage to ask what her brother had been up to.

"Nothing," she said.

"Well what does he do during the day? He didn't try to get into another school?"

"Nope. He just walks the streets."

All I could muster was, "Will you ask him to come see me after school one day?"

I don't know what I would say to him. The most I can offer is to tutor him so that he can stay caught up. If we look at the statistics, kids like him rarely graduate. I still can't help but to feel guilty but I also know that harping on it will do no good. For now all I can do is learn from that mistake. That huge mistake that changed his life forever. I can make sure I don't repeat it. I can make sure I give his little sister every opportunity she deserves. It's on days like that one that I question whether I can do this job forever.

Reminding Myself Why I Do This Job

Describe your favorite student:

Sam is not my smartest student. In fact, he struggles more than most. He tries to hide the fact that he really can't read. When I conference with him individually or require him to write while I'm standing at his desk, he nervously hovers his pencil over his paper before he scribbles even the simplest of words in such illegible handwriting that he thinks I won't be able to notice the misspelling. He doesn't have poor handwriting. He writes his name very well. He writes the words basketball and Kobe Bryant very well.

Sam was one of my pee-wee basketball players last year. A sixth grader at the time, he had such heart and wide-eyed eagerness to learn that I constantly found myself gravitating towards him, making sure he was doing everything perfectly... because I knew he wanted that. I wasn't his teacher, so I really had no idea how far behind he was academically. All I knew of Sam was that he always did as he was told, most of his teammates seemed to like him, he knew when to joke, and he knew when to "give me his eyes." 

This year I've gotten to know him a little better. About three weeks ago, I got tired of him losing everything he ever did in my class, so I pulled a binder off my shelf and emptied from it the miscellaneous paper work it was storing.

"Come here," I said with a stern tone and a wry smirk on my face.

He looked at me, chin lowered, his eyes unsure as to whether I was mad or joking.

"Come here, Sam," I repeated, showing a little more of my smile.

At this he completely dropped his head, and as he dragged his feet towards my desk, snickers rippled throughout the room. In most situations I would nip this immediately. In most situations I'm pretty sure my students would know better than to laugh at all. But Sam was doing this intentionally. He knew he wasn't in trouble and he knows how to be a ham.

As he sat by my desk, emptying the crumpled papers and busted pens out of his frayed and faded backpack, I patiently explained to him how I was dividing each section of his new binder. 

"This section is for your Do Nows. I'm putting plenty of blank paper in here so you don't have to walk around the room anymore asking people for paper. This one's for your notes... again... blank paper, why?"

"So I don't have to walk around your room mooching off my classmates," he smirked.

"Very good."

Surprisingly we managed to pull most of his missing assignments out of that tiny backpack. I made him put each one in its proper section. My next step was to make something to go on the front of his binder, inside the clear sheet protector. I pulled out a blank sheet of printer paper and opened my drawer to find a marker... only highlighters. Yellow wouldn't have shown up, so I placed my hand on the hot pink one and looked at him. His eyes got wide and his jaw dropped.

"Don't do that to me, Miss B!"

"Oh yes... this is happening," I said.

In big, hot pink capital letters I wrote Sam's VERY Organized Language Arts Binder and then slid the sheet into the front of his binder. Perfect.

My last step was to take a pen out of my drawer, tie a long piece of yarn around the top, and duct tape it into the center of his binder.

"What's this for, Sam?"

"So I don't have to walk around your room mooching off my classmates," he repeated.

Sam brings that binder to class every day now. He never forgets it. Every day he walks in, turns to his Do Now section, stretches his pen out as far as the yarn will let it reach, and playfully plucks at it like a guitar string. He may not get the Do Now questions correct most days and he may still misspell elementary words... but we're working on it. He wants to work on it.

When approaching this blog assignment I wrestled with how I was going to do it justice. There are so many kids who make my job worth it, who provide motivation to roll out of bed every day. It's easy to get excited about helping the "smart kids." It's easy to lean towards the kids who understand what I'm saying the first time around and only talk when they're supposed to. Sam probably talks too much, he's disorganized, and often times I have to repeat directions several times before he begins his work... but at the end of every day, when I reflect upon what I've accomplished, it's the things like making that binder for Sam that remind me why I do this job. I've met so many kids with poor backgrounds and rich personalities. Often times they don't realize how limited their opportunities really are... often times I'm glad for that. Kids like Sam, however, seem to be well aware of their own realities... devastatingly aware of their own realities. They know they're below reading level, that their parents can't afford binders, or that they're not the best athletes. They still show up everyday willing to make me laugh, willing to try in my class, and willing to humor me by letting me think they LOVE things like organized binders and subject-verb agreement. While Sam is indeed my favorite student, I am lucky to be able to say that I have several like him.