On my first year of teaching in a review center, I handled a boy and a girl, third year and second year respectively. They are siblings and they were probably among the, excuse me, the least good of students I have handled. The boy was in better shape than the girl who had a hard time remembering four items from her notebook. They were not lazy. They were not brats. They simply weren’t.. very smart.
I always felt frustrated every time I teach them because I felt as if I was not good enough. Consequently, they weren’t my most favorite students.
Then one day, their mother paid us a visit and talked to me. She asked me how her kids were doing. Eaten by prejudice, I told her how her children were and everything I said was, as I remember it now, not the nicest things to hear. I didn’t say they were stupid, nor did I say they were hopeless, but I didn’t say they were trying their best either.
She thanked me, sincerely, and told me that she knew that her children were not smart. She told me how every night she prayed that her children make it though their lessons, how much she wished she can teach her children herself, but unfortunately she lacked the skills nor the patience that we, teachers, do have. She told me that she knew her children weren’t bright but that she had to do everything she could possibly do so that they will learn. She said she appreciate us for doing the very thing she could not do for her children. She thanked me one more time and left.
Humbled by this mother’s love for her children and ashamed for what I felt for those children, I spent several minutes looking at my desk feeling rotten. After a while, I forgave myself and promised never to look down on anyone and do the best I can for any student that will come my way..
After all, I am a mother, too…
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