A Matter of Misfits

It was an eighth-grade literature class and students were to give their oral presentations that day. As their new teacher, I called on each student and came to a shy girl who had never spoken more than a couple of words in class.

 

“Alicia Gomez, it’s your turn,” I said.

 

She blinked in acknowledgment and swallowed hard. A plain girl with unusually long, braided hair, Alicia had never spoken more than a couple of words in class, so her lack of a response was no surprise to me.

 

Santiago raised his hand. “Uh, teacher. Excuse me. Alicia doesn’t do presentations.”

The class giggled. The message was loud and clear. She’s too shy. The teachers leave her alone... on to the next student, please.

 

“There’s no reason why Alicia can’t give her presentation like everybody else,” I said without missing a beat.

 

The soft-spoken girl took her notes to the front of the classroom and began her presentation without hesitating. “The doctrine of Manifest Destiny….” She began, her voice quivering. 

 

“Speak up a little, please, Alicia,” I urged. The students listened more intently than usual.

Alicia´s uncommonly pale skin turned a shade of pink. Would she be able to finish? Would she break down with some sort of panic attack? It appeared not. One student squinted a bit, to better understand. Another cocked an ear. Heads were up and students listened, for once, intently.

 

“…that little strip of land was known as The Gadsden Purchase….” Alicia had come prepared.

 

After she had finished, she hurried back to her seat to a mild smattering of applause. The spell had been broken. Alicia had spoken, and she had spoken well.

 

The semester passed without incident until one day in which Alicia was written in as a character in a finger puppet show complete with a curtain and mini stage. A pasty-looking puppet with long-braided hair burst through the curtains…

 

“The school day began like any other day with Alicia Gomez arriving before anybody else at 6:20 A.M.” the narrator boomed.

 

Funny stuff. Really funny stuff. I looked over at Alicia and caught a hint of a smile. The girl that didn’t fit in, the pale girl with the long braids remained a misfit for the rest of the school year. But there would never be any question about the quality of her schoolwork and newfound confidence. She particularly liked my classes on Edgar Allen Poe and chose to do an illustration for one of the stories. At the end of the school year, the students had to clean out their lockers, and Alicia surprised me with a gift.

 

“Teacher, I’d like you to have this.” She showed me the pencil drawing, her version of Poe’s House of Usher.

 

“What? I asked. “For me? But why, Alicia?”

 

“I remembered that you liked it,” she replied.

 

A better than average student drawing, it was a depiction of a spooky house with the title, “In Memory of the House of Usher.”

 

My most cherished award has become an addition to my scrapbook, but it is not for its artistic worth that I keep it.

 

You see, here´s how I break it down: As a teacher, you can go about nurturing star pupils in search of trophies, certificates, and notoriety. But trophies, certificates, and notoriety can be cloying. They are but fleeting moments of recognition, the events leading up to the forgotten. As teachers, our aim, of course, is to nurture all our students. Nevertheless, we invariably fall into the trap of calling on the students who raise their hands first. They are the students with whom we most make eye contact. Unconsciously, we give them more attention when teaching. It is sort of hard to avoid, really. This brings us to our challenge: to nurture the misfits.

 

Sitting there, sometimes quietly, sometimes not. Some paying attention, others distracted, doodling, whispering to a classmate or perhaps trying to finish a chapter of some teenage pulp fiction. Most, I have found, are dying to break out of their shells. Any of these misfits could be a quiet genius. Even more likely is that he or she is of average intelligence but with a great deal to offer. Just a little push is all it takes. Just a taste of success. Just a little boost to their confidence, and “voilà!”

 

That student will never be the same. As a teacher, when you care to nurture those who struggle or who are a bit awkward, the knowledge that you may have helped a misfit is a sticky-sweet reward that does not easily fade. Do not expect to be thanked for your efforts. Most likely you will not be thanked. But that is okay. The best rewards a teacher can get will always remain unsung. The joys of teaching are many, to be sure, but true success, I have learned, is not measured in terms of purely personal gain or professional achievement.

 

I am convinced that we teachers can positively change our students’ destinies through simple human gestures. And just as a teacher can positively affect a student with a vote of confidence and an unwavering decision, so too can a student positively affect a teacher with a bit of eye contact or a hint of a smile. Or perhaps a drawing of a spooky house.

 

On to the next student, please.