The Boy Who Gave Me Hope

The boy who gave me hope

He came to class most days looking like he’d just crawled out bed. I understood. My mornings began at 4:30 am. A seven am. school start time was early! I’d begin class, and he’d put his head down and sleep. My heart sank. A little voice told me to teach to the other thirty that listened. Still there he was not caring at all. I reached out to him. Nothing. I explained that there was make-up work to complete. Nothing. As the quarter continued his incompletes accumulated.

One day due to testing he ended up in my class for three hours. I tried again. I set a vocabulary make-up quiz in front of him and asked him to complete it. He did. He had a perfect score. When I handed it back to him, I didn’t notice any reaction. I breathed grateful that the score would lift his grade to passing.

When my children were in high school, they’ll confirm that I was the biggest pain in the butt! I’m not sure how many times I uttered the words, “is your homework done?” It must’ve been in the thousands from first grade to their senior year. I worried about C’s and expected A’s and B’s. I worried about their SAT and ACT scores, college applications and scholarships. I worried and worried and worried some more fearful that I wasn’t doing enough to prepare them for their future. As the years passed my daughter graduated college and my son entered college. Freedom! No more worrying.

Then I stepped into the high school classroom. It’s like I’ve been transported back to that time when the weight of the world sat on my shoulders. This time it’s other people’s children, and it’s not SAT scores or scholarships that worry me because I’ve discovered that to worry about those things is a luxury. I’m worried about the student who has given up. I’m worried about the kid who doesn’t believe in himself enough to even try. And while many of the students in my classes are successful with parents who continue to prepare them for a bright future, there is a handful that sit and do nothing, and it breaks my heart every day.

So, I found myself standing in front of the class asking why. I wanted to hear their side of the story. I explained my point of view and how much it hurt me to see them fail. I explained that I wanted to help them and I needed to see that they cared just a little bit. I told them I had hoped that I’d run into them at the grocery store in three years and hear about how well their life was going. I told them I wanted them to succeed. My blood pressure rose, my cheeks blushed, perhaps I was opening a can of worms but to do nothing and watch them fail was more than I could stand.

The boy lifted his head. I caught his gaze and for a second hoped he heard me. Feeling as though maybe I should never have said a thing I quickly switched gears and went on with class. Honestly, I felt like a failure. Even though I had no idea of what this seventeen-year-old had been through in his life that was making him not care it didn’t matter. I had spent nine weeks with him and still, most days he didn’t try.

As the day went on, I became distracted surrounded by students who wanted to get their ninety-four percents to ninety-nine. I stood in the hall between classes having forgotten about my morning rant when suddenly the boy stopped to talk to me. He asked about his grade and reminded me he had received a hundred percent on his quiz. It was the first time all quarter he had approached me and asked about his classwork. He had heard me. He was showing me he cared. And in that beautiful moment, he gave me hope.