To the Finish Line

Many people think that teenagers are miscreants. Hormonal lunatics.  Unfocused blobs.  Overall pains in the tuchus.

And many people question the sanity of middle school teachers, for we actually choose to spend our days with these unfocused blobs. How can you possibly stand it, they ask?  How can you stand them?  I have been posed this question, or some variation of it, at least four trillion times in my fifteen years of teaching, mostly by the small talkers seated next to me on airplanes.

This is how I stand it.

Eighty-four teenagers passed over the threshold of room 309 for the first time twelve days ago, and since that morning, I have been feeling inspired and utterly hopeful.

What are you, crazy?

Maybe so.

But…

I have witnessed students crouching down to help each other with jammed lockers, volunteering to organize my already disorganized bookshelves, assisting classmates who are new or who have severe disabilities.

I have seen a young man return a $25 gift card that he found tucked inside of Shadow Divers, a book that he had borrowed from my classroom library.  This is not mine, he uttered.

I have watched students work through their lunch period, day after day, fiercely determined to stay ahead, to have a successful year.

I have read comments, one writer encouraging another writer, in our online discussion forums.

I have listened to their passion for the Beatles, for Batman, for the Twilight series, for swinging from the trapeze (yes, two of them are “swingers”).  I have listened to stories of Sundays spent volunteering to help abandoned animals.

I have learned of their battles against attention deficit disorder, of their mourning the loss of their far-too-young-to-die parents or siblings, their struggles to cope with acrimonious divorces, and their own physical trials against low birth weight, and diabetes.

I have read of their hopes to become stronger writers and more adept readers, and of their dreams to become veterinarians, first grade teachers, architects, lawyers, and professional sports players.

I have learned of their talents for horseback riding, for hockey, for violin, for sketching.

I have witnessed other “talents” too, for burping, for farting (bring on the Febreze), and for producing such explosive sneezes that they send an entire class erupting into laughter.  They are teenagers, after all.

I have laughed aloud, as they have shared stories of brothers keeping dead eels in the freezer, of stuffed animals (one named Mr. Woofums) protecting them in the darkness, and of cooking skills so unrefined that even the toast gets burnt.

And, speaking of cooking…

This is the five-star story.

“Ms. Baker, you should have seen the pot roast that I made last night.  It was fifteen pounds, and, Ms. Baker, it was amazing.  If I had a camera, I would have taken a picture of it to show it to you.  My daddy said that I should have invited you over to eat with us…”

This fourteen-year-old cooks daily feasts for her two older brothers and her diabetic father.  She plans the menus.  She heads to the supermarket.  She serves them. Oh, and whenever possible, she also accompanies Dad to dialysis treatments.

And yesterday she woke up at 4 a.m. to get started on that day’s homework.

“I don’t have a lot of free time,” she explains.

I do not know where her mother is, only that she is not around.

“You know, Ms. Baker, that’s really okay.  A lot of people I know don’t have  fathers in their lives, and I feel lucky that I have such an amazing one.”

If there is an ounce of self-pity in this fourteen-year-old’s heart, I have yet to see its face.

Last year, she read and read her way out of Reading Support class and, one day, she plans to attend Spelman College.

“Do you know where that is, Ms. Baker?”

Oh, yes, sweetie, I know exactly where that is.

And I will help you get there.

*****

Meanwhile, at home tonight, I whip out the frozen pizza, transfer it to the preheated oven, and announce to my own children that their feast will be ready in thirteen minutes.  Maybe tomorrow, kids, Mommy will make pot roast.  Huh, they say, what’s pot roast?

Never mind, I laugh.

And, once hands are washed and we’re all settled around the dinner table, I shower my kids with stories of these darn teenagers, of these middle school miscreants that I am sentenced to teach.