“If you’re hearing this message and we didn’t pick up, we’re making some changes, and you’re one of them.”
What did I just hear?
That’s not the kind of message I expected when I called one of my student’s parents.
He wasn’t doing as well and I was doing what every good teacher should.
I was calling home for some help. I was calling home to share that I cared about their son.
I admit, not only did the message confuse me, it made me a little mad.
Why was I cut off? What did I do?
It was my third year of teaching. I had just transferred to the county in which I live to cut my daily commute from over two hours to about 40 minutes.
No more leaving the house at 6 am and more time at home with my family which now included a one year old.
It wasn’t the first time that parents wouldn’t call me back and it definitely hasn’t been the last. I know it happens at all schools, but I seem to be experiencing it more lately.
And it still annoys me.
I share this with you because I’ve had a hard time understanding when a parent doesn’t call back. I don’t understand when numbers don’t work. It frustrates me when I can’t leave a message.
It probably frustrates me as much as it has when my own children’s teachers don’t get back to us when we have questions.
I can’t relate. Maybe like my students when I try to relate a story or lesson.
I was telling my students just yesterday about the tv we had in our house. It had a handle. It was a black and white model similar to the one above. It wasn’t just small by today’s standards — it was tiny.
It was what we had in my house.
When I explained this phenomenon of the tiny tv that was normal to me when I was my students’ age their faces told me they couldn’t picture a tv that could be moved from one room to another. I told them I had, at most, 5 channels which ended around 11:30 with a band of color and an unappealing shrill of a beep.
Yeah, I suppose I was showing my age.
They couldn’t relate to me, and I’m sure that sometimes I can’t relate to what is or what happens in their home.
Here’s my point.
I’m sure that my students don’t know about my being raised on what used to be the local neighborhood landfill — my dad admits to me that even his friends thought he was crazy when he bought that land.
My students don’t know about my asking Santa for one thing at Christmas because that’s what we did, we asked for one thing.
My students don’t know that my skin color made me a minority in my neighborhood, even though I check off caucasian on government forms.
My students have no clue what it’s like seeing your cousin and best buddy get hit by a semi trailer. I do, and it’s taken a long time for that memory to fade.
They don’t know about the lessons taught to me by father — some tougher than others; and there is no way I can completely share how I felt when my parents divorced.
I share this with you because I’ve caught myself being frustrated again lately when I can’t reach a parent just like that moment many years ago.
This time however I’m trying to remember that I really don’t know what my students and their parents are enduring.
What I shouldn’t do is continue to react with frustration and instead, try to remember that every student I meet in my classroom is affected by the struggles that happen at home.
And these struggles aren’t just real for my students, but they affect their parents in ways I don’t know and of which I’m unaware. It can’t but affect how available they are when I call home.
So this is a reminder for myself that I do not know what battle occurs on the other side of that phone call or email.
I will do a better job that when I reach out to my parents and they’re unable to call me back, and when I react, I will do so with more of an understanding heart.