My class does not have tests. One of the best attributes of my unique teaching position is my freedom from the burden of administering state testing or worrying about how my students' scores might reflect poorly on my abilities. But in its own way, my work is subject to a different kind of testing. A final exam with a lot at stake.
Formally, I do not teach vocabulary, algebra or American literature. My subject matter is more about exploring individual histories, understanding structural injustices and discovering personal agency. Beneath lessons designed to practice writing, poetry, literacy and self expression we try to tap into our deeper wounds—wounds from broken families, from childhood traumas, neglect and abandonment, from over exposure to violence and hatred, internalized shame and racism and from insecurity and self-doubt. These things leave scars. These things do not heal unless they are acknowledged, and treated. These are wounds we all have, behind the walls we all put up, layers of machismo or pride, when we remove our bandages and defense mechanisms, we all have wounds. Our classroom is where we try to teach about alternative choices, teach self-respect, teach hope, teach healing.
When my students leave Camp, they are spate back out into the daily hazards of an at-risk, inner-city kid; they are tested on the material in way than I could never offer on paper in multiple choice questions. I am left hoping that our time together in the classroom might subtly or noticeably influence the way a given student sees himself, his choices and his future. If they return to camp for a second, third or fourth sentence, I feel a bitter sweet sting. I cannot help but be happy to be reunited with a former student, to see a familiar face and to pick up where we left in our learning off so abruptly. But I also know that this is an indication that somewhere somehow we have failed, he and I.
For the students who “graduate” from my classroom back into the free world, I will never see their metaphorical test scores. I will never hear from the again. They may have turned eighteen and been booked in an adult penitentiary, they may stay on the “straight and narrow” and keep out of trouble, they might fall in love, they may relocate or be shot or be the unfortunate victim of the “wrong place at the wrong time”, they might get their G.E.D. and apply to colleges, they may forget about us, they may be forever changed by our brief encounter. They may have failed our class or received straight As, but I will never know.
Today I received an email with seven attached pictures of my former student and his two baby girls (3 years old and 5 months). “Thank you for all the positive feedback you gave me,” it said. “I really appreciate it… but out here things are still pretty rocky.” Once in a while I get a call from a former student, or a letter or an email. There is an awkwardness to this correspondence. We don’t have the same roles that we once had in Camp, we are no longer sure about how to interact. They usually just call to say hello. There is much distance between us and not a lot I can do to help them without the safe bubble of our classroom. I cannot force them to seek the resources they need, to surround themselves with positive influences, to make better choices when faced with the temptations of a treacherous lifestyle and the challenges of a precarious environment.
To me that phone call means more than just an awkward hello, it lets me know that they are alive and that something I have done is worthwhile. From behind the hardened walls where they spend so much of their time hiding, they reach out as if to acknowledge that someone once reached out to them. It is as if to say, “I haven’t forgotten. You have affected me.” I can only hope that some of the sense of self that they have discovered through our work has taken hold and that some of our time together has allowed some of those wounds to scab over and heal into something which is strong and whole again. This is the most I can hope for the both of us.
