It’s parent/teacher conference day (yippee!), wherein we teachers sit for 7 hours in uncomfortable chairs in front of uncomfortable cafeteria benches in the commons while parent after parent, sometimes with students in tow, line up to have short, five-minute, uncomfortable conversations with us.
It’s not as bad as all that. Not all these conversations are uncomfortable. Many of them are downright pleasant, not because all these folks are taking the bad news so well, but because most of the news for the folks who actually show up is not bad, but good. Your child is doing phenomenally well, just swimmingly, absolutely engaged and present, a leader, an inquisitive, caring, thoughtful soul. So, the discomfort, then, is not about saying nice things to people about their kids, but about the fact that you rarely ever see the parents you need to see, and when you do, you understand why the little person is struggling and you are not always hopeful about having an advocate at home. Or, the discomfort comes out of the pure sadness, sometimes the tragedy of the situation: divorces, illnesses both physical or emotional, estrangements on either side or both, or precarious living situations. Sometimes you’re faced with the pure helplessness of parents–they don’t know what to do; they’re at their wits end; they’ve tried everything. And sometimes you have very little in the way of substantive help that you can offer. Today I end up nodding a lot. Trying to be present and attentive. That’s the best I can do sometimes.
The enthusiasm of the teacher sitting next to me is off the rails. She’s having a party over there with everyone who visits. I’m having some performance anxiety. She’ll lose steam after the first three hours or so.
Yep, she’s already taken it down a few notches and we compare some notes.
When there is a lull, teachers wander.
A math teacher wanders over to my table to ask my opinion on a thing, to get some perspective on an appropriate response to a student who’s earning a C from him and A’s from all of her other teachers. He’s got this.
Another math teacher wanders by with some music trivia: given this lyric, can you name the song? I vaguely recognize the lyric. Cannot name that tune. It turns out to be “Electric Avenue.” Later on, he tries me again with “the willow turns its back on inclement weather.” It takes me a while, but I get it: Paul McCartney and Wings, “Just a Little Luck.” One of my teacher friends brought me some candy, a bite sized Snickers, and my favorite, a bite sized Twix. I love her.
Today, it’s slow. As of this writing, it’s 3:51, almost four hours in, and I have seen 20 families. I have 158 students on my roster. It may be the calm before the storm. Watch, this evening, when we come back at 5:15 from dinner break, it will be a barrage. I’ll have to remember to keep breathing. I’ll have trouble after a while forming words with my mouth.
Our administrators treat us to a pizza dinner between 4:30 and 5:15. Unfortunately, I’m kind of ashamed to say, this week has been a kind of pizzapalooza; Monday night and Wednesday night, pizza was on the menu and I just cannot eat another slice. I’ve got a salad.
And then it’s back to my uncomfortable chair in front of an uncomfortable bench to have uncomfortable conversations while chipping away at this blog entry. Shouldn’t I be using the minutes of free time in between visits to do some grading?
This is a fair question.
In response, I would say that yesterday I was in my classroom from 8 in the morning until 3:30 in the afternoon grading student notebooks. I am resting. Those other piles will still be there on Monday, I am almost certain. And after those piles are gone, I’m sure, there will be another pile.
It’s 6:10. Things are beginning to blur, and yet, the barrage I half expected has not arrived. I’m still able to form words with my mouth and I am breathing in a relaxed manner more or less. The choir teacher and I spoke together over pizza and salad about the way that the online gradebook has made it less necessary for parents and guardians to visit their kids’ teachers in the flesh. At any moment, as long as they have the internet or a smartphone, they can check on grades. They can avoid those pesky lines and the uncomfortable chairs and benches and the uncomfortable conversations. Internet 1. Humans 0.
It’s 6:45. 45 minutes to go, but who’s counting? I’m getting up from my table and pacing back and forth. I’m wandering. I wander over to Beth’s table, our most beloved and steadfast substitute in the history of history, and she’s there now because she taught most of the first quarter for the disappearing English teacher until another teacher could be found and hired and who is not with Beth now because she’s not yet at the end of her obligation with her previous job. So Beth and I talked about development, how they’re leveling all the trees that used to shade her back yard to make way for a massive convalescent center. Look on the bright side, I said. Without shade, your entire back yard can be a vegetable garden, maybe even a community garden. We’ll have more cucumbers and peppers and other stuff that comes up from dirt and I’ll come over and pick things out of your garden. Because I’m in your community.
I wander back to my station and stand around some more. The vice principal makes an announcement that there are only 10 minutes left before the evening’s over. The commons is a ghost town, a ghost town populated by tired teachers packing up their stuff, and some ghosts. Ghosts of parents and kids from years and years of conferences, lingering, questioning in perpetuity in that worried way: How are we doing? What can I do? What can he do? What should she do? They’re all good kids and we try to be good parents and teachers. We’re doing our best, always, at least, doing our best. Thank you and good night.
michael jarmer 