See It Through
“The world needs us to lead, not to lick our wounds.” – Donald Miller
Most of my greatest teachers thought they were my students. This writing honors one such teacher, a strong-willed boy with a fighting spirit who will forever be one of my heroes. I believe people come into our lives for a reason — maybe to help build us, if we let them. This is an attempt to share what I think his reason was for showing up in mine….
It was the hardest year I ever had teaching. I loved all nine of my middle school students, but the maximum recommended number for a self-contained classroom is eight — for a reason. Feeling spread too thin and worried that none were getting the individual attention they deserved, I was called to the office to meet my new student, number ten, Tyler Hanes.
Deep breath. Not sure I could handle one more thing, I walked to the office more worried about myself than whoever might be waiting in there.
His quick, melt-your-heart smile lasted all the way… until we got back in the room, where he lost my undivided attention. Determined to regain it, whatever it took, the next few weeks were a series of explosions. Running out of the room down the hall (outside at the slightest chance) and, if nothing else, yelling profanity in front of the class usually worked to get some one-on-one time. One of my all-time favorite classroom stories happened during one of those spells. Everyone else was taken to the gym, and I stayed behind with Tyler. He was getting a little aggressive so I went into the hall, holding the door closed behind me.
Our conversation through the door…
Tyler: OPEN THE @#%@#& DOOR!!!
Me: You can’t leave the room talking that way. We have to say nice words at
school.
Tyler: OK, Open the @#%@#& door, PLEASE!!!
Ann (my assistant): You’re making progress.
So that began a day or two of missing p.e. to say bad words. Ann and I told him that was fine if that was what he would rather do — just sit there with one of us and say any he could think of as long as no one else could hear him. It wasn’t as much fun, I guess, if you had permission and you really liked basketball.
Over the next few weeks, we began to notice amazing progress. What started out as dark scribble on a piece of paper turned into actual legible words. Tyler was finding another way to gain attention. He desperately wanted to please. I will never forget his face the first time he made it through a whole paragraph of mostly consonant-vowel-consonant words. He looked up at me and said, “Hey, I didn’t know I could read!” Never has a student been able to drain every ounce of energy I had, only to turn right around the next minute and fill me right back up — and then some.
I worked with Tyler for three years. I watched him sing in our annual musical. I watched him win medals at Special Olympics. I watched him have compassion for students whose problems were different than his own. I watched him sit in the middle of the band room soaking in the sounds. I watched him make sure I was okay after a hard day, even when it was his fault.
The third year, he quit eating very much. He bruised easily, and he was diagnosed with #Cancer . It was then that I began to realize why God made him such a fighter. In his sixteen years, he learned to compensate for a disability, and he battled a terminal illness until his last breath on earth.
Tyler helped build me. I met him worried about myself, and somewhere along the way my perspective changed. He needed a teacher. It wasn’t about me. In the whole scheme of things, I was fine. What if my class was his last shot at school? If I wasn’t going to teach him, who was? It appeared that I was his hope. Turns out, he was mine. He taught me to see things through. He taught me, as Andrew Solomon says, “Love is made more acute when it requires exertion.” What if I hadn’t stuck it out? What beautiful things I would have missed. He made me learn to step up and lead, not lick my wounds. He taught me to be more like him, and I am glad.
In my mind, I see Tyler busting heaven wide open. And getting all the attention he can handle.
