Barbara's Note

I finished student teaching in December of 1994, four years after I wrapped up my BS in political science (Yeah. You read that right, Poli Sci. I had the most credits there; I went with it.) I figured I'd sub till the following school year, but wound up stumbling into a fifth grade classroom in an inner city school by March of '95. This class was one hot mess. The previous teacher had difficulties, and that's all I know. I was the new teacher, new in every way: green, inexperienced, armed with equal parts innocence and optimism and idealism. Sure, I could turn this class around....

Then I met Barbara.

I couldn't even make this bunch walk in a line to the art room.

Barbara was a leader the class, giggling hysterically when I prompted and scolded. She riled up the others. She defied and guffawed. Yes, guffawed. She didn't do her homework. She didn't take notes home. Her actions screamed: I DON'T CARE! And yet, I knew she did.

This idealistic newbie teacher assigned to her room believed that this girl really cared. Not that I knew anything about how 10-year-olds think. But thank the good Lord that He handed me that intuition.

I could have given up. The time I burst into tears in front of this class during a particularly miserable fractions lesson was a low point. Then there was the time I spent 20 minutes of precious class time training these kids how to walk in the hall. I should have just let them run hog-wild in the four-lane down the hill, for all the good that did. I could have stomped out and gone home to a good book and my feather pillow. But I could not leave. These kids were under my skin. Especially Barbara.

By the end of May, we'd settled into a not uncomfortable routine. We could make it to art class on time, albeit noisily. We could popcorn through reading class. Heck, we could read. I had met all the parents, and I had their support. Barbara laughed, oh, she laughed daily. But she laughed with us more than at me.

One afternoon at recess, Barbara sat down beside me on the sidewalk. Just sat there sort of smiling. We watched the other kids run around the parking lot (our playground) and chatted about the upcoming 5th grade graduation. She was apprehensive about leaving this school, her turf. I felt a pang of sadness that I would not see her around next year.

Graduation was sweet in the way wrestling matches are. The parents were wildly appreciative of their kids' accomplishments, clapping loudly and whooping it up the entire time. This was not the polite graduation of my own country upbringing. And before I knew it, Barbara slipped a note into my hand, hugged me, and was gone.

I kept that note in my teacher's desk every single year. I read it whenever I doubted my ability to be a teacher. I treasured this note of thanks and gratitude whenever I met a Barbara I thought would drive me over the edge. I wish I still had this note. I think it's lost in the myriad of boxes that have followed us from Virginia to Ohio to Pennsylvania to Connecticut. No matter. I can still see Barbara's loopy handwriting with doodly hearts above the "i"s and feel her own heart, and I know that God gave me Barbara that year to teach me something about myself. I am a teacher. I teach them all, the good and the bad, the smart and the struggling, the easy and the tough. And I probably love the Barbaras just a little bit more.