Shine A Light On Me

In my first nine weeks of student teaching, I met Chris. He was another teacher at the middle school I was placed at. He was a massive six-foot black dude, who used to play college football, a highly coveted life in Oklahoma. Aside from his intimidating stature, he was quite humorous and easygoing. He didn’t have to yell or threaten because his genuine nature seemed to interest the kids. That and everyone knew he was a gamer. He actually won a gaming competition for how good he was! He told me of a parent-teacher night that consisted of a line of dads outside his room, all waiting to ask if they could challenge him online. I still laugh at this story because if you met him, you’d probably never guess he was into all that. 

Gaming stats or not, Chris was well-liked by everyone and the kids loved his class. It was a popular one, Gateway to Technology. Something that didn’t exist when I was in junior high, but now kids have access to computer science and engineering as part of their education experience. He won awards for his class, kids declared him to be their favorite teacher, administrators were proud to have him. 

He was chipper, funny  and calm. A lot of times I was in awe of him, I mean, he made it all look so easy. When asking what his craziest teaching story was, he told me of a kid who drank a bottle of glue, “I said Man, why did you drink that glue? And he said, well cause he told me to, and pointed at his friend shrugging.”

On a couple of occasions I stayed after school to chat with Chris and commiserate over the usual life, society and politics. In a lot of ways it was a relief for me to be with another minority who could empathize with and feel a little less isolated. In these chats we talked about teaching, how he came to be in Oklahoma, about his family in Louisiana and his initial reluctance to answer the call of education, quite literally. “They kept calling me, saying we know you have a certification.” 

•

Each teacher I’ve met has said something that stayed with me, things I’ve written down to never forget. I keep them with me in hopes to make me a better person, the sum of all these people. With Chris I remember him saying, “There are 743 students at this school, there are 743 problems in this school.” Some might have misunderstood that as a negative statement but I knew exactly what he was saying. 

In my mind, it meant the importance of remembering that kids are all going through different things, at their home, mentally and physically. Each student is unique and they’re all bouncing off the walls together in one place, during the most awkward part of their life. Forgetting that fact keeps you from seeing them. His words made me fear ever reaching a point of dismissing what I didn’t understand or the laziness of generalizing, to avoid confronting my own bias and limitations. 

Chris was also the first person that I felt comfortable talking to about my dad. He was the first person whom I was able to talk to about how painfully removed I felt from dad’s presence. Chris shared the memories of losing his mom, how shattering of an experience it had also been for him. He told me the importance of signs, without ever preaching in any way towards me. 

He recalled that the morning of his mom’s funeral in Louisiana, it snowed. Such an incredibly rare occurrence that he took it as a sign from her, that she was somehow there. Her spirit carried on around him in this unusual circumstance when he felt most adrift in pain. I understood what he meant without any explanation. When I talked about my reluctance to walk for graduation because my dad wouldn’t be there he disagreed. “He’ll always be with you, he’ll be right there with you, no matter what. Always.” Usually when people said this sort of thing I would roll my eyes. Except when Chris said it, I suddenly believed him because he genuinely did.

•

A lot of our conversations also seemed to be me coming to terms with a permanent imposter syndrome I’d developed over a lifetime of feeling deeply insecure. As a kid, I was in a nice middle-class suburb surrounded by other kids who had accomplished and professional parents to guide them. My parents had fought their way out of poverty in one generation. They brought my sister and I to what seemed to be the answers to everything they didn’t have, but it wasn’t that simple. 

When it came to school and modern problems, I was on my own. By the time I graduated high school I began to realize I was not the same as my peers, but couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. It wasn’t even until I was 28 that I learned all the statistics working against me. I never believed I was smart or capable because of how badly I struggled in school.

It took a decade before I realized a lot of it was generational poverty that had influenced my parents and my entire life. It was like an invisible baton being passed to me of anxiety and depression. I was disconnected from the world as much myself. I wasn’t inferior but I felt that way. It was a hard habit to break and talking to Chris I was starting to see my own baggage holding me down.

•

After graduating with a second degree and getting my first job, I always made a trip back to the school to catch up with Chris. Listening to me talk about all the things changing in my life he quickly noticed how much I was not used to thinking positively about myself. I seemed shell-shocked at my whole life. Finishing one degree, then another, accepting my first professional teaching job and doubting myself every single step of the way. I often spoke with hesitation or disbelief that suggested I didn’t deserve any of it. 

“Why not you?” he asked. Those words still ring through my mind at any given time. That question made me pause as to why I couldn’t consider myself worthy of the life I had carved out. Why was I apprehensive of enjoying good things or giving myself any credit? At the time I was speechless but the question has always stayed with me, even after all these years. He made me see I was deserving of good things. I’ll always remember him for that. Chris was probably that to a lot of other people, I was lucky to be one of them. I will always be grateful for his friendship, the honor of getting to know him, the preciousness of those conversations. He was one of the most important mentors of my life at a time when I needed it the most.