My Failed Assignment
I sit at the desk with my feet propped on the stack of papers I have yet to look at.  My eyes dart down the page, pen in hand, scribbling away checks and X’s.  The occasional abnormality catches my second glance so I stop and search for a mistake in the student’s frivolous markings. The pounding of a foot against stairs steers my mind from the current task.  The first face appears in the doorway.
The thought of my first class of the day on a Monday is terrifying.  The students are tired and lazy at this time of day.  But so am I.  I was up until one last night for this week’s lesson plan.  I try so hard to make even a slight difference in their lives, but I struggle.  This will probably pass as just another week in the year and be forgotten by the weekend.  I am committed to my work, and I hope the students know that, but I feel as if some don’t realize that I’m here to teach them.  Why is that so hard to grasp?
The class fills into their seats, and I pass out papers.  The student walks in.  Late again.  I don’t say a thing.  He has begun a habit of disregard for the time, and I will not let that happen in my class.  I let him know I need to talk to his parents.  It is for his own wellbeing of course.  Surely he understands.  But he just glares at me and sits down.  Five minutes into class and already an interruption.  A wonderful start to a wonderful day.
When I check homework I am not surprised he does not have his.  It is rude to predetermine if he did his work, but I rarely have a check next to his name in my gradebook.  He gives an excuse, but I find it hard to believe his stories these days.  “Whatever,” he says with that nonchalant look as I inform him it will be a zero.  It is the same one I see every day, and I get used to moving on to the next pupil’s desk.  I then explain the work for the day and return to my desk to grade papers.  I sigh and remove the pen from its convenient placement above my ear.  It is almost robotic as I cycle through worksheets and lay them in the correct spot on the desk. 
Of course, halfway through reviewing last week’s quizzes I glance up to see him texting.  I lumber over with disapproval written on my face but sorrow filling my mind.  I do not like to take the phone.  I do not want to embarrass him in front of his peers.  But it is necessary.  I reluctantly inform him he can pick it up later.  So much for leaving early today. 
He is clearly not pleased, but he slumps back in his chair and doesn’t say a word.  Just before turning around, I notice his papers are blank, and so again I tell him he needs to do this work or he’ll get a zero.  At this he says his “whatever” and turns away.  A sudden anger boils up inside me.  Who does he think he is to treat my class this way?  His apathetic nature will get him nowhere in life.  He will probably just end up on the street, or dead for that matter.  Should I care?  I’m doing all I can do.  So why is my rage intensified by the twiddling of his thumbs, and his blank stare out the window, as if he does not understand what is in store for his future?  What effect should one failed assignment have on me?  I have eighty three others. I storm back to my desk.  I later see him eating, which is not allowed in the classroom.   I tell him to put it away, but he won’t, so I send him out of the room.  The bell is a relieving noise. 
            
I hurry into the classroom balancing my bag over one shoulder and struggling with my books in the other arm.  I know I’m late so I try to slip in without interrupting the class, but the teacher is not in the mood.  The teacher is always so grumpy in the morning.  None of want to be here.  Just do your job and send us to the next class.  My mom’s car has had trouble recently so I had to walk the three mile trek to school, but the teacher persists in lecturing me on the importance of being punctual.  My mom will be notified, he says.  That is the last thing I need.  We recently moved because of my dad’s new job, and my mom and dad have been fighting about it for weeks.  My mom won’t have time for some stupid teacher letter. 
When the teacher goes around for homework, I panic.  I had to take care of my little brother last night who is sick, plus I had football, so I just passed out on the couch at nine.  I tried to explain my situation, but the teacher wasn’t hearing it, so I gave up.  He passes out the classwork and I looked at it. My mind is racing and I can hardly think.  I just space out.  I then hear a buzz in my pocket.  It is my brother who wasn’t feeling well.  Poor little guy.  He was throwing up all last night and this morning his fever was even higher.  Of course just as I put the phone away, he walks over.  “Give it!” he demands.  His voice is so snotty and annoying.  He thinks he’s king.  He snatches it away with his hand but his eyes remain locked with mine.  He thinks he’s intimidating.   He is just another problem in my day.  I’m used to it. 
As the minutes pass I start to get really hungry.  I forgot to grab breakfast this morning on my rush out.  I reach into my bag for a granola bar.  As if on cue, the teacher is there, telling me I can’t eat.  “It is classroom rules and you know it” he spits out at me.  I’m hungry and annoyed, and I need to blow off this steam boiling in me right now. I get up and leave.   He knows he lost, and he desperately attempts to kick me out as I close the door behind me.  I throw the rest of my granola bar in the trash.  The bell is music to my ears.
            
The clatter of footsteps filled the halls and I take a deep breath.  I open the door with a smile and welcome the first students.  I show them their desks, and the return to the doorway to greet more faces.  They file in and mingle around until I tell them to choose a seat. 
The first day is always so magical.  You watch the start of friendships, and the students are always so nice as to make a good first impression.   But after the sixth period is over, and all the children are gone, the tears began flowing.  I look at the papers to my right and the pencils in the jar on the left.  The newspaper clipping was still in its frame in front of me.  Memories fill my mind.  I grab tissues from the box and let my eyes empty into the soft paper. 
I didn’t hear her walk in, but I feel her eyes watching me from the doorway.  “You need to move on” she says softly.  “It has been over a year.”
“But it was my fault” I exclaim with a cry.  “I failed him!” 
“You weren’t his parent.  There was nothing you could do” she responds. 
“I gave up” I cry.  “He might not have wanted to learn, but I certainly didn’t try hard enough to teach him.  And now it’s too late.  I should have at least done something.” 
She is still just leaning on the wall by the door, her face stone cold.  “That mom is grieving two sons. Stop pitying yourself.  You have hundreds more kids to teach, many of whom will be eager to learn.  And think of the hundreds who went to college, who now have lives and families.” 
I lift my head up from the desk.  “I can’t think of any of them when I remember the students who didn’t get into college.  I sigh “…Or never had a chance to go.”  I open my mouth to speak again, but she is already out the door.  I look back at the newspaper clipping in front of me.  Boy takes his own life after the tragic death of his brother.