More Coffee, Please

Ignoring the following post would probably be a good idea. It’s about nothing in particular, nothing of any real value, other than me talking about some of my kids who have done well.¹ Most of the points (and there are points) won’t show up until Wednesday, and skipping to then probably wouldn’t harm anyone.

Still there? Wow.

One of the tragedies of teaching is how little time we get. That’s true from the moment the bell rings to start and end the class, to the 180 days that we get total. I’ve said over and over again that the first 180 days is required by law—anything after is a gift for which I’m grateful.

A good chunk of students stay in touch for a few months, even a few years. It’s hard to predict who will and who won’t. Sometimes it’s a cup of coffee at Brewbakers when they’re on break and schedules don’t conflict; more often, it’s email, the occasional text message, or phone call.² Most of the time, this is the former student searching for their roots, measuring their growth by how much or how little has changed. When they hear good things about the school, they cheer, or they might grouse “it wasn’t like that when I was there” depending on temperament.

When they hear bad things, they roll their eyes, and feel good they no longer need to suffer. They go back to their lives, working towards their goals, towards doing the very best they can.

Then, every so often, I get an invite to come see them.

These invites come rarely. They’re busy, and their aren’t many reasons that would justify any sort of travel. I’ve come to quite a few movie premiers for Keene State College film students, and more than a few championships won at the athletic fields, but for those students who go beyond Keene State, it gets a little harder.

Which is what makes the last two weekends so interesting. The last Saturday in April I was in Dover, New Hampshire, at UNH—the first Saturday in May was spent in Fayetteville, North Carolina at Methodist.

At the first, I was at an academic conference where dozens of students displayed original research in their chosen field. I watched someone who used to argue politics with me—and usually lose—lecture about genes and mutations, antibiotic resistance, bacteria. Three quarters of the vocabulary made no sense to me—the remaining quarter was used in ways I didn’t understand.

It was painfully clear that I didn’t want to argue anything—unless I felt like losing.

At the second, I was the academic sponsor for a graduate who, in addition to magna cum laude and a BS in Justice Studies with a concentration in Forensic Science, was also involved in just about every honors program the school had. This was someone who I used to lecture about serial killers who had spent the last four years doing blood spatter analysis with the people who write the textbooks, someone who will probably end up writing a few books on the subject.

The two places—and the two people—are not quite as unrelated as they sound—both locations are the homes-away-from-home of two of the seniors in my first class of Crime and Punishment. Four years ago, Danielle Morse, and Heather (Hetty) Schneider suffered through—or made me suffer through—their senior English elective. They graduate this year—in the worst economy in decades—and one will probably head off to a crime lab³ (either with the FBI or Las Vegas) and the other will either start working in the medical profession or begin her doctorate.

None of this has very much to do with me. They came to class practically sisters, stayed that way through their senior year, and have worked hard to stay in touch—usually for ice-cream or pizza. In both cases, they followed the sciences, (despite strong writing abilities) and more often than not, it was Sue Sciuto whose classroom they hung out the most. ⁴

(I remember, quite clearly, within a space of a week when I got a phone call from each of them, looking for Sue’s email. Hetty used to complain that she wanted a “pocket Sciuto” to keep with her—Danielle would just state wistfully, “Mrs. Sciuto is awesome” every time one of her professors failed to measure up.)

Nor do I mention any of this because it’s unusual. I have many, many students who do exactly what they wanted to do in school, and work hard to do it in their lives. The only thing that’s terribly unusual is that I was able to see, four years later, what we tried so hard to prepare them for.

It is most definitely a “we.” For whatever reason, I was fortunate enough to receive the invitation, lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. In both cases, it was an honor to be invited I could never have expected.

I certainly didn’t do much to inspire either of them by my example, and on the face of it, I can’t figure out anything resembling an answer to why me? MRHS is full of talented, amazing teachers, and so is the district—there are dozens who helped push these two along.

Let’s not ignore the parents, the siblings, the cousins, aunts, friends, and so many others. There are a great many people who mattered—certainly me no more than they.

Forget that for a minute. Let me talk about another student.

“MY PSYCH PROFESSOR JUST SAID HE REALLY LIKED ONE OF MY PAPERS AND HE WANTS ME TO WRITE AN HONORS THESIS ABOUT IT!”
I get the oddest emails—but I also don’t mind. I first bumped into Jina Algarin because I had her older sister in class, and Jina had a problem with one of her papers. Or, rather, her teacher had a problem with one of her papers—it was “fine.”

The grade was a “B” but it was “just fine” and there was no need to do anything more. Jina was ticked—because if it was “just fine” then it should be an “A” and if it was a “B” then that meant there was something wrong with it.

That was the start of a 45 minute study-hall conversation, and about six years of emails, stopping me in the hall, and strange questions, like “Isn’t ‘pre-judge’ redundant?” or “Can you really have a Ph.D if you can’t spell ’separate’ on the board?”

About two weeks before that email, Jina and I were discussing how much college disagreed with her—how little she found to engage in. It wasn’t going “right.” She was bored.

Then there was the paper. And suddenly, it’s “My psych professor is going to hook me up with two more psych classes I need. Potentially, there’s an internship there—it’s pretty cool. I’m excited.”

I had two questions: “Can I read the paper?” and “Do you feel like you finally clicked?”

“I can’t look at the corrections/constructive criticism you make to my paper… I got an A in that class. ”

There’s a pause, and then a smile. “Yeah. I do.”

I see a parallel between these three—belief. For the first two, Danielle and Hetty, maybe the only thing that I ever did was absolutely believe—as I do to this day—that they will do everything they ever wanted. There was never a moment’s doubt—and I wonder how much of that is sensed by our students, and how much does it matter to them?

For Jina, I can’t say that I ever had that same conviction—probably because she didn’t know yet what she wanted. It’s hard to believe in something when there’s nothing there to believe in. I certainly believed she could do it, and I held her to ridiculously high standards⁵, and I like to think that it helped.

But I think it takes more than that—I think it takes belief in something particular, a conviction that’s more than just faith.

Which ties into Wednesday’s thoughts.

1 Which is not to say that most don’t. I’ve got kids serving in Iraq in Afghanistan, proud fathers and mothers, living over-seas on military bases and in their own homes across the country. There are kids scattered from Harvard to UNH to Keene State to Champlain to the University of California, from Maine to Oregon. I probably have many in places I’ve never heard of, and all of them have done well, continue to do well, and I’m pleased with what they’ve done. But this is about these three. ↺

2 Often followed by, “Could you look at my resume?” or “Would you mind proofing this paper? My teacher’s a moron.” ↺

3 Or engage me in a race for a terminal degree—I rather hope the former… ↺

4 About the only thing that really ended up happening in my classroom for these two was a great story. We were in the middle of a mock trial, and these two were acting for the prosecution. They were doing terribly well—dressed like lawyers, well prepared, and seriously impressive. I can’t properly tell the story of how Sam Wyman spun it around—one had to be there—but I do recall both pounding their heads on the desk knowing they weren’t going to win that case. ↺

5 I have handed out exactly ten “A+” grades in six years at MRHS—half of them in one year teaching Honors Junior English (which is somewhat expected). My standard was pretty simple: to be an A+, I couldn’t come up with any way to improve it, and when I handed it to another teacher, neither could he or she. I think there’s still a ringing in my ears from that particular scream of excitement. ↺

Gregarious

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