Now, it’s my turn to sigh. “Yeah, I know. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“Technically, we’re on spring break, and even though I’m not supposed to be answering emails, a parent reached out to me on Facebook, desperate for an answer. It broke my heart, is all. Her son’s been doing his math lessons wrong this entire time, and since they weren’t being turned in and graded, he didn’t know any different and thought he was doing it right, so he never asked for help.
“This kid is really smart, and he was doing the math correctly, just missing a step to solve the geometry we’re focused on now. He did probably three chapters of math wrong. If he’s doing it wrong—one of my kids who’s really good at math—then what’s going on with the kids who aren’t good at math?”
I hear her sniff through her nose, and it hurts my heart. To see a teacher care this much about her students is pretty amazing.
“So, what did you say?”
“It’s all so confusing. We’re asking these kids to do this work and asking their parents to become their teachers, but for what? None of it will be turned in. My principal told me I wouldn’t actually be grading anything.”
“Then, how will you grade the last semester?”
“It’s basically a participation check. Are they checking in? Are they participating in our Zoom lessons? After talking to the parent, we decided that he’ll watch videos I found that go over the work, and if he can demonstrate that he understands the chapter by solving a few problems, then he can just move on. I worry about the kids who don’t have caring parents like this one does.”
I hear more tears fall, and my heart breaks for her. I wish I could go over there and hold her, help her through this time.
“Then, I realized that I’ll never see these kids again,” she continues. “I love teaching sixth grade because we get to do so many fun things at the end of the year. These kids won’t get to go to sixth-grade camp. They won’t get to walk the stage at graduation. They won’t even get to go tour the junior high, like the students normally do every year.” She can barely talk at the end of her sentence because she’s crying so much.
“You’re an amazing teacher,” I say. “I hope you know that.”
“Thanks,” she says through more tears.
“Please don’t cry. I know this is hard for you. I wish I could be there.”
“I know.” She takes a big inhale before slowly letting it out. “Hey, I have another teacher beeping in. Let me call you back.”
“Okay. Call me when you’re done. I’ll be here.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I hang up the phone and place it on my bed. I’ve never felt so helpless, and I hate it.
I get up, throw on some shorts, and head out to the kitchen to get some coffee.
As I sit at the counter, my mom enters the room, pouring herself a cup. “How’s my boy this morning?”
I sigh. “I just got off the phone with Sharee. She’s having a hard time. A kid did all of his math wrong, and she’s heartbroken that she can’t be there for him and the rest of her students and for all the end-of-the-year stuff they’re going to miss.”
“Well, that’s a sign of a good teacher. She obviously cares for these kids if it’s affecting her that way.”
“Yeah, I said the same thing.” I stare into my cup.
“Then, why are you so down?”
“Just makes me sad that I can’t be there for her.”
“You like this girl, don’t you?”
I nod. “I really do. I know I just met her, but there’s something about her. You know?”
“Of course I know. I wondered if you’d find someone like her. I knew the girls you’d mentioned in the past weren’t for you.”
“She’s different,” I say, playing with my coffee cup.
My mom places her hand over mine. “Then, go to her.”
My head pops up to meet her eyes. “What?”
