Lillian naturally comes to mind when I plan a lesson.
She eats it up.
She goes above and beyond.
She’s thoughtful and appreciative. She shares her thinking in mindful and modest doses. She smiles quietly at my jokes.
I wish I had a copy of all her math work — especially her written reflections — because each one holds the joy of my teaching. Here’s one:
At our Continuation ceremony last year, Lillian gave a succinct, heartfelt valedictorian speech.
Then a month ago, on March 11, I got an email from her:
I was looking at old pictures on your Twitter and in my camera roll, and I could totally see how much I loved your class. I was tearing up. I’m moving up to Math 3 Honors next year, yet I’m not sure I’ll ever be as excited about math as I was in your class. My current class is something of speed and prior knowledge… Not my favorite environment for growth, but you live and you learn to deal with it.
To this day, I remember so many little things about your classes. You truly changed the way I saw the world. I think my intense activism and political vocalness is in part your doing. I use my voice because you gave me one. I’m not a shy little sixth grader anymore. I’m beginning to come into my own as a badass bisexual intersectional feminist. I’m learning, and you pushed me to do so. There’s a lot of work for me to do on myself and the world around me. Maybe my first pattern equation wasn’t so far away (You told me “just because her equation is right, yours isn’t any less right”).
I miss being her teacher.
I miss watching her persevere and explain her thinking during number talks.
Then last week, on April 7, I saw a video of Lillian that her friend Sam posted on Twitter. I asked Sam for a copy, and Lillian gave me permission to share it here.
[I’m having trouble transferring the video here.]
I cried hard.
Not just because her poem is eloquent and powerful and makes me so goddamn proud, but because her message is all too real and urgent. The expectations placed on students — by parents, by teachers, by themselves — can be enormous.
We talk a good talk:
We say we’ll respect the child and let her learn at the speed of learning.
We talk about perseverance and play, about deep mathematical thinking, about equity and access, about cultivating a voice grounded in truth and heart.
But I’ll be the first to admit: I don’t always walk the walk.
I’m bound to a system that requires me to issue a grade at the end of the quarter. I have to do this for each child, four times a year.
Because that’s just how it is.
At what cost?