It was my second year of teaching. My classroom was a small annex room behind the junior high school. My class was housed in Annex 2. I was the youngest teacher on staff and glad to have a job. I wanted to teach; the location was not important. The seventh grade students were of the utmost importance to me.
During the summer break, my colleague and mentor, Jane Long, had invited me to attend a writing workshop with her. The facilitator was one of the co-directors of Marshall University’s Writing Project. She led us through a number of formula writings. One that I particularly liked was the Biopoem. I guided the students through the writing process, and we followed it by sharing the poems orally before the class.
When students write and write truthfully, surprises are bound to pour out of their pencils. The Biopoem is an enlightening activity that would enable a deep bound between my heart and Jon’s. As Jon read his poem, I was shocked to learn about the obstacles that he was facing.
Jo, his mother and older sister were making their home with his maternal grandmother. His parents were divorced; his father lived in Michigan and had little contact with his children. Jon’s mother was terminally ill with cancer and had been hospitalized for several weeks in Charleston, WV. I had never known a cancer patient so I had no way of knowing how traumatic the disease could be.
After the students read their poems, they turned them in. That evening as I read through the poems, I wrote comments on each one. I wrote that I would pray for his mother and family. I also asked him to keep me posted and updated on his mother’s progress.
A few Monday’s later, Jon entered the classroom and I could instantly tell that his heart was heavy. Jon told me that he had to talk to me between classes. As the last student left, I asked him to close the door so that Jon could tell me what had him so troubled. Once the door closed, tears swelled in his dark green eyes. He said, “Mrs. Hawkins, I need a hug.”
For two years the principal had continually warned all of the teachers, “Never touch a child. You are never to touch a student.”
Jon’s tears, heartache, and mental well being overrode the principal’s warnings. At that time, the Mommy part of me rose to the surface, pushing teacher into the background.
I opened my arms and allowed Jon to take comfort from them. As his tears flowed, he related the horrific weekend he had experienced. As Jon was dressing to go to the hospital with his sister to visit his mother, she left without him. He didn’t get to visit his dying mother. His grandmother had not given him the comfort that he needed, so he turned to a sympathetic teacher.
By the time he came to my class, he desperately needed a shoulder where he could cry and an ear to listen to his story. My heart broke for Jon. I had no comforting words of wisdom. All I could do for him was to hold his head and let him take comfort from someone else’s mother’s arms. There was no way I could refuse Jon’s plea. Sometimes a student needs more than a teacher. I was Jon’s English teacher but he din’t need an English teacher on that particular Monday. He needed comfort from a mother. I wasn’t his mother but a mother I was, and that was enough to get Jon through the week.
A few weeks later Jon’s mother died. Immediately following the funeral, Jon packed up his belongings and returned to Michigan with his father to begin making his home and new life there. For many years, Jon and I stayed in contact through letters. Eventually, he no longer needed the security I had freely given him. We lost contact and went our separate ways.
I appreciate the advice given to me by my principal. Do I regret going against those warnings? No! I do not regret being something other than an English teacher that Monday morning. Jon needed a mother. I became a substitute for a few brief minutes. I am a mother at times before I am a teacher. Have I been there for all of my students? No! Do I always know what’s best for a particular person? No! Does writing help me know my students? Yes! It does. Writing fulfills many standards but the standards are often the ones that are unwritten.
(This was written in response to one parent dies by Penny Kittle.)
