No Matter How Old

So let’s be real. I don’t write a whole lot about the classroom. I’m not really sure why, as spending hours in a room with ten little children trying to teach them in a foreign language is not a dull thing to do. I’m sure every day I could tell some random happening that is rather memorable.

Like the time I was teaching about culture and asked the class what examples of “cultural American clothes” are and Wilfredo shouted BOXERS!

Those aren’t really a thing here.

Or when I decided to tell my class the story about when I was ten and a bird pooped in my eye because I thought it would be funny but really it was just awkward. That story just doesn’t really have a moral.

So yeah a bird pooped in my eye and I was so scared and I ran to the house with Jessica and washed my eye out.

Rare classroom silence. Blank stares.

 Okay time for math.

Let me just be really real. I don’t speak Spanish. I mean I do now a whole lot more than I did before. Honestly sometimes I surprise myself. But there are moments when I’m standing in front of the classroom getting ready to teach social studies and I’m like

hahaha I’m about to do what?

There is a girl in my classroom named Fabiola. She came late in the school year.

It took me all of about thirty seconds to decide that she was one of the most adorable, joyful, loving little humans on this planet.

And I was right.

Every morning when she enters the classroom she gives me a giant hug and says, “I love you so much, Teacher.”

And before recess.

And after recess.

Eventually she replaced the word teacher with mom and my heart melted about fifteen million times.

You’re my mom. I’m going to miss you so much when you leave. I am going to cry.

I am going to break.

Fabiola is thirteen and in fourth grade. She is easily my most dedicated student. Her notebook is perfectly neat, she always stays a couple minutes once recess starts to make sure she understands the homework, and she’s the one I put in charge of the classroom whenever I leave for a few minutes.

Okay, I have to leave for a minute. Everyone listen to Fabiola.

Oh, but Teacher!

Gracias Fabiola!

The week before last we had exams. So the past couple weeks of class have simply been reviewing. I’m honestly really proud of my students in math. They didn’t even know what a fraction was, and now they can draw, add, subtract, and multiply them. Along with all the many other things they’ve learned.

But when Fabiola found out there was a comprehensive exam, she became incredibly nervous.

Teacher, I’m so nervous for the test!

You don’t need to be, Fabiola! You’re smart and you understand everything.

No I’m not, Teacher.

She asked me if I would help her study, and so I told her to ask me whenever she wanted.

A little bit later I was working in the kitchen and she came up to me.

Teacher, will you help me?

I only had a couple minutes as we were almost ready to serve lunch, but I walked out into the main area and sat down with her at a table. She pulled out her notebook and opened it to the page with all the review problems.

She couldn’t even remember how to add.

Eight plus five, Fabiola. How do you do that?

I don’t know, Teacher.

Yes you do!

No, I don’t. I don’t remember.

I was really frustrated. She was way past addition in math. I’d watched her do far harder things for months. How could she not remember?

I did what I could in the couple minutes I had, then headed to the kitchen and told her to ask me for help any other time she wanted.

A few days before the exam, I realized I hadn’t heard anything from Fabiola about the test, other than a few comments in class about how nervous she was. So I headed to study hall to see how she, and my other students, were doing.

A few minutes after I got there I walked over to Fabiola. Thankfully she had remembered how to add, but she could not for the life of her figure out how to subtract numbers when the bottom number on the right hand column was greater than the top number in that column. You know? Like 43 minus 17, and you have to make the 3 a 13 and the 4 a 3. She couldn’t get that.

Anyways, sorry. I’m sure you’re not dying to do math right now. And if you are, props.

I took her into my classroom and wrote some problems on the marker board and explained them to her.

And explained them to her.

And explained them to her.

She just would not understand. Eventually I left the room to help someone else and when I came back and looked at the board, the problems she had done in the time I was gone were done incorrectly.

She was frustrated. I was frustrated. It was time to go and I told her I’d help her again the next night.

And so the following night I went back to study hall. I sat down by Fabiola at the table, asked her how her math was coming along, and she burst into a million tears.

I took her outside and looked into her eyes and said

Fabiola, you are so smart. You don’t have to get a perfect score on this test. You have learned so much this year and that’s what counts. I don’t get perfect scores on my tests, either. It’s okay. It’s okay.

She just stood there. Crying, sniffling, frustrated and nervous and sad.

And so I decided that I would not give up until she learned how to subtract.

I took her back into the classroom, wrote more problems on the board. And we stood there together and went over them over and over again.

And again.

And again.

I’d erase the problems and write new ones on the board. Erase the problems and write new ones on the board.

And finally, after so many problems, she looked at me, her eyes wide, and said

Teacher, I understand.

I wrote three problems on the board and left. A few minutes later I came back.

They were all finished. Perfectly.

I looked at her.

They’re all correct, Fabiola.

She threw her arms in the air, that joyful smile covering her face, and said

I understand, Teacher! I understand!

She was bursting. I gave her a hug and she kept saying

I understand, Teacher! I understand!

Again and again.

She must have said it at least ten times.

She got 19 out of 20 on her exam.

My heart. She beamed when she saw her score.

And I guess that’s what teaching is all about. Yeah it’s frustrating. Especially in a language different from my own. But knowing that I helped Fabiola understand a basic concept, and knowing that she can look at that test score and know she earned it? It makes it so worth it. Worth it all.

And I know she’s thirteen. When I was thirteen I was in seventh grade. But I think that moment gave her a bit of confidence. I think it made her proud of herself. It made her feel smart and capable. And goodness, that’s a lesson we all need to learn, no matter how old we are.