New Kid

I got a "new kid" yesterday. On Wednesday, Veteran's Day, that awkward isolated holiday that feels uncomfortable to either ignore or celebrate, I received the email: We're getting a new kid tomorrow, and looks like he'll be in your classroom. He's requested special permission to switch schools. He's not a behavior problem, more of an academic problem. He refuses to do work and cries a lot. More info later.

My first reaction was annoyance. Things have been going so well. I lost a great student last week to a move, and now my class size was down to 18. 18 is such a great class size. It's small, but divisible by 2, 3, 6 and 8... So many possible groupings. 19 is a prime number. Always an odd man out.

And I was just starting to think of myself as a competent teacher. The last thing I need is a challenging student to prove that I am otherwise. Why me? Why should he be put in my class just because I have the fewest students? Shouldn't we look at teaching style and class composition? Maybe this kid needs more structure, or a male role model, or a class with more girls, or greater proximity to the bathroom?

The next email had "more info." His mother is in prison and his father practically absent; he lives with his grandmother. He had a conflict with his previous teacher. When I emailed the teacher, he responded that the kid was "lazy and ungrateful" for all that they had tried to do to help him. They gave him a pair of new sneakers and he "thanked them by losing them."

Alright, so maybe there is a home for this kid in my class. Bring him on. Here I am. With open arms.

When I was in college I worked with women in prison. I taught theater and creative writing workshops and was, in turn, taught(touched, molded) by the women with whom I worked. After college I continued to work with incarcerated women, and women on parole and probation, trying my hand at counseling and social work. I wasn't cut out for it. I lasted 7 months. While working with these women, nearly all of whom had children they rarely saw, I decided I wanted my life work to be with their kids. I went in to public education with the hope that once in a while one of these children would land in my nest. That somehow through 7.5 hours a day for 180 days I may be able to add my drop in their bucket and achieve even an ounce of influence, the influence that was so far out of my reach as a case manager.

Now that he has landed I am not entirely sure what to do. I will teach him, in the best way I know how, often haphazardly, but always with love and respect, and hope that he, in turn, will teach me.

There is, after all, something magical about prime numbers.