“Mrs. D, you should write a book about our class. You’d make so much money, and we won’t even ask for any of the royalties.”
“The problem is, my friends, I do not think readers would believe the stories I could tell. They would accuse me of trying to pass fiction as fact.”
My fourth period class, a class filled primarily of sophomore boys, was one I will not soon forget. They were loud, and active, and had mouths like sailors. I tried friends, I tried to get them to stop the foul language. I did not succeed in this endeavor. But those knuckleheads also became highly protective of me and were the ones who dropped by throughout the day. Somehow, the class I often wanted to strangle wormed its way into a corner of my heart and made itself nice and cozy.
That is the beauty and fun of teaching, the classes we least expect, the students we least expect, end up being the ones we most enjoy and where we learn the most.
Someone once asked me how I dealt with that class. Honestly? Not well some days. Most days, I held everything lightly and kept a good sense of humor. What they reminded me is that they need a safe space to be who they are, which they have yet to figure out. They needed to play and be silly and they needed to hear, “I’m proud of you, good job.” I found the more honest I was with them, even if that honestly sometimes felt brutal, the better they responded.
My wild ones of fourth period reminded me one simple truth: we all long to be seen and to be heard. It was exhausting, but also a source of incredible joy and laughter, to be in that room. Maybe I will start writing about them and our adventures together, though I fear you will not believe my stories to be true.
“Mrs. D, since you teach senior English, you should request all of us our senior year. That way we can end like we started.”
What high praise from a group of teenagers.