baby daddy

Little Dude, you make me be a better person. You’ve made me into a better teacher. You’ve made me start to think about others and how they interact with the world.

I found myself, at the beginning of the school year, talking to students as though they were you.

They said: “So, here’s my essay. I hope you like it.”

And I said: You did you essay! Awesome! Dasso awesome! You so awesome! Dassa good job! You do a good job!

And they said: “You’re creepy.”

And I said: You think I’m creepy? I can’t beleeve you say dat. I can’t beleeve you say that to me. You so bad! You such a bad person!

And they said: “Seriously. I’ve gotta go.”

And I said: Awwww. Dass too bad. Dass too bad! Why’s you gotta feel like dis? Why izzat?

And they said: “Mr., You’re weird.”

And I said: Yeah! Dassit! Dassit! YEAH! Dass awesome! Dass sooo awesome! You so awesome!

And then they left.

And then I called after them: Oh why you poop?!? Why you POOOOP?!? You mussa need new diaper, yeah! YEAH! YEAH! OH you so awesome! YEAH!

And as silly as it sounds, I think this is how I need to interact with my students. Not with the baby talk, necessarily, but with the honest surprise. The honest disbelief. The honest wonder, and with the honest congratulations.

So many teachers we remember as curmudgeons; and I’ll try not to be one. I’ll try to push myself to be the real teacher — the guy who’s always excited and the guy who never puts you down. I’d like to be (for my students) the teacher who’s congratulatory and willing to see the bright spot in whatever they do.

And I owe it to you, little dude. You’ve helped me step outside myself and put myself in my students’ shoes. They don’t fit, but I can feel the weight of being a student.