©2019 CarlaSophia
2nd grade lunch time. Students voices echo and bounce off the cold walls with smells of fake mashed potatoes and turkey filter through the room. Teachers trying to make students use their inside voices, but that is practically impossible with over 100 students in one room, using this time to catch up on school politics. There was very little time for socialization. Textbooks and standardize tests would take over classrooms in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to get lunch in an assembly line, trying to find a table that was filling at the rims, trying to find people that would allow you to fit in, to have a sense of normalcy. But regardless of the hunger pains that stir in my stomach, I wasn’t interested in the bland food the school could give. Which in hindsight, it meant that I was better off than other students where this would be their only meal. I had it better, even if it was only by a little. The lunch teachers didn’t like this revelation as I would take my white paper napkin and cover the food that I didn’t eat and take the purple tray to the trash can and dump out the foul contents. They would continue to catch me off and on, scolding me as I stood there in my sketchers sneakers and my Blue’s Clues socks. “We will call your parents” they would keep telling me. But I kept doing it anyways. They wouldn’t be able to get a hold of them anyways. My parents both worked during the day, I thought it would be hard to get a hold of them. I was wrong. Apparently they called my parents, told them they were concerned that I had an eating disorder. They never could understand that I found the food disgusting. I was more careful about it afterword, blending in with groups of students instead of sticking out like a sore thumb.
4th grade art class. The smell of paint settling on the tables and the small hands of students as works of art come to life. 4th grade is easy, simple. Art shouldn’t be critiqued like Picasso or Da vinci. We were in 4th grade making stupid abstract art that didn’t seem to matter but it did. I worked too hard on things. I was too much of a perfectionist. I would work on things harder than others because I knew art wasn’t my strong suit. I also had all of my friends in that class, but that was besides the point. My parents were called again. “Your daughter is not doing well in my class and I am finding it concerning,” Mrs. Davenport said through the phone, the connection containing static, “I would like you to come up to the school so we can discuss this.” My mom drove to the school after work. I was sitting in the principle’s office with Mrs. Davenport. My mom came in and sat down in a seat across from the principle, a large desk the only thing separating them. I was nervous, tapping my foot on the ground as I heard the adults speak about me, but not to me. “Your daughter is struggling in art.” “We are very concerned about her artistic ability.” “Not everyone has artistic ability,” My mom said, glancing at me. I ended up with a 1 in art by the end of the year. They called my mom because I wasn’t as artistic as the rest of my classmates.
Middle school and high school, constant concerns of my writing circle around me. The caring is kind, thoughtful even. The calls home always sound the same; “Your daughter has been writing some things that are concerning. We just want to make sure she is okay, and if everything is okay at home. We do have all of these resources…” Freshman year in English wasn’t anything. In our spring semester, around February of 2012, we began working on a poetry portfolio. By the end of last semester we had just finished Romeo and Juliet, and talked about the poetic style Shakespeare carries through all of his work. This then transitioned into the different types of poetry and creating our own. She wanted us to express our creativity, dig deep inside our minds and let our feelings out. I agonized over this assignment, many other students did as they told stories that many don’t talk about; one student talked about her aunt’s drug addiction, another talked about his dad’s suicide. Some were more happy, while others were stale and written in a rush. When I turned my portfolio in I felt confident. I thought my work was well written and I put so much of my heart and soul into it. It was the one area that I could be creative; it wasn’t a report or an essay, but something that we could give face to. Two weeks later, we were in the media center, the sound of various typing and mouse clicking filled the room. I was on the computer closest to the printer; I didn’t like being surrounded by people. I was working on another essay when I felt my teacher pull up a chair beside me. This wasn’t uncommon of her by any means; she normally did this when we were working on things to see where we were and to re-guide us if we were straying onto a different path. I acknowledged her presence but continued working on the essay, though I can’t remember now what it was, and she continued sitting there. I could tell that she wanted to talk about something by the way she was holding herself, so I stopped my work and turned to face her. “Saja, I was looking through your poetry portfolio,” she began. I saw her jaw shift a little, knowing she was trying to think of a way to say something kindly, “Your work is powerful and intense, but it is a little dark. I just want to make sure that you’re okay. Is everything okay at home?” I know she was slightly concerned with how fast I answered, “Yeah, everything is fine,” because it was something I’ve had to practice over the years. I’ve had to get used to these types of questions. Everything was fine, I just have a different way of expressing my creativity. This time I was at least able to explain to my mom what happened before she got a call. She was used to them by now, but it’s good to get a heads up every now and then. I know she called home, had the same spiel with my mom, and while it is nice that my teacher cared, sometimes it’s almost overwhelming.
As teachers, we are supposed to care about our students, we should be concerned about possible red flags, as there could be issues that they don’t outwardly express. However, sometimes I feel like it crushes my creativity and makes me too afraid to share my feelings. I hope that when I become a future educator, I can create an open space where people can share their feelings, come to me if they have a problem, and they don’t have to worry about suppressing their creativity. I want them to feel welcome in my classroom. I want to be able to learn about my students in various of ways, and that includes writing. I know I will be doing similar things like this, because as an educator you have to ask these questions from time to time, but I hope that if students need anything, then they can be open with me and let me in, and know that I am always a resource for them.
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