Three time a year at Edison the school invites the parents of the students to come in and conference with the teachers. They set up tables around the walls in the cavernous cafeteria, and each teacher sits at a table under a sign with his or her name printed in big handmade letters. Parents, sometimes with their children in tow, arrive, pick up progress reports (grades, grades, grades) and then go seek out their teachers, sometimes waiting in line for that teacher to finish up with whoever they are chatting with.
As a student teacher, I didn’t get a handmade sign with my name on it (not that I expected to). So I sat to Marie’s right and waited, sitting idly through the conferences she had with parents whose children I didn’t know, and chatting briefly with the parents of some of the children I will be teaching starting next Wednesday. A few observations and reactions:
Allen’s grandmother--who quickly identified herself as his “sole, legal guardian”--brought with her a great cloud of cigarette smoke which hovered over the conference. During the conference she talked about Allen’s parole officer and how much trouble he was going to be in when they had to meet about his grades (he’s failing the class right now because, as Marie puts it, he “refuses to do any work at all”).
Charlie has two impish and adorable little brothers who embarass him. And he is absolutely terrified of his parents. As he sat there listening to what Marie said about him I could tell he was just praying she didn’t say anything negative. His father--a tall, imposing looking man--loomed next to him, stern as Mount Rushmore. His brothers flopped and flailed on the bench between him and his mother, oblivious to what was going on around them.
One of the mothers has miraculous hands, the dirtiest hands I’ve ever seen, with grime ground under the fingernails and into the swirls of her fingerprints. They were working hands, with little white calluses like ground-down rhinoceros horns on each knuckle.
Melanie was home-schooled; her mother thinks that her daughter shouldn’t have to sit in the same room with children who don’t want to learn. I was overhwhelmed by her mother, who talked and talked about what Melanie thought and believed and felt without ever once allowing Melanie to speak for herself. I kept watching Melanie begin to say something and stop because her mother kept cutting her off.
Isaac, cheerful and playful and responsive in class, is silent, even squirelly, with a nervous facial tic throughout the conference. His mother says nothing at all, and in fact has her back turned to both her son and Marie and I during the entire conference. Later we learn that she had gone to his SPED teacher to complain about the grade he earned on a paper he wrote for Marie. I can still see his little face, twitching.
Esperanza has straight As, but when I ask her what she’s been doing right to earn all those As she can’t say and seems a little embarassed by the question. This is the first time this evening I notice that when the conversation shifts away from grades to something more substantive the conversation stalls. Neither teachers, students nor parents seem to know much about having human conversations with each other.
One mother says: “So I should just be proud of her?”
Brandi says she’s a weak writer, then goes on to tell us about how she usually runs out of gas at the 20 page mark in a story. I tell her that if that’s the truth than she might just be a writer. An awkward silence followed until Marie started talking about her latest quiz grade.
One of our students waited almost ten minutes in line, and then just before it was her turn she took her mother and adorable little sister and left.
Our last conference is with Julia and her parents, and is, perhaps, the best conference we have all night. I say that because Julia’s mother leads by saying that Language Arts if the hardest subject for her daughter, and so I ask Julia what she finds so hard about it. And then she starts talking about the things that are hard for her, and some of the strategies she’s used in the past; and she even references conversations she and I have had in class about her writing; and I learn a little about her history as a student; and her parents learn about what we’re working on in the class and that their daughter is being supported in really specific ways.
Walking out to my car I remember why I like conferences so much--because it’s one of those moments when the student’s life outside of school shows up. Most of the parents who came were engaged--and so were their children. I wish, for example, that I could have met Hadley’s parents. But it’s nice to see the faces that meet my students faces when they come home, the people from whom some of my student’s learned to speak and walk. So much about them is mysterious--and will remain so, even after meeting their parents. But the glimpses we get are worth cherishing.
No comments:
Post a Comment