The Student-Teacher Relationship

It was in June of sixth grade when my teacher, Ms. Stein, started to sing along with the radio. The class must've been having a pizza party or something, because I remember Ms. Stein ran a tight ship. Her voice was light but crisp, kind of like her teaching style. She was singing along to Sophie B. Hawkins.

"You know this song?" one of my classmates asked, obviously surprised.

Ms. Stein laughed. "You think teachers don't have lives outside of the classroom? That we just stay in the school building and recharge every night, like robots?"

Years later, I'd realize that that feeling was common of the students in my elementary school. I'm one of the privileged few who can attest to a superb public school education, and that feeling that most of us had about our teachers was probably a testament to their amazing teaching abilities. We thought they were amazing and infallible. For the most part, at least.




Fast forward to last week, when I encountered one of my students on the train platform with her mother. I'd hurried home after work to change into my decidedly casual and un-marm-like clothes for a night of yoga and beer. (Yeah, strange, I know!)

My student excitedly introduced me to her mother, who turned to me and said, "You're a teacher?"

I pretended not to notice her snide attitude. "Yes, I am!" I gleefully replied. "Guilty as charged! And your daughter is an absolute pleasure, I have to say!"

"You're a little young to be a teacher, aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-three."

She gave me the once-over, then snarled, "You don't dress like a role model."

My smile tightened and I blinked several times. "With all due respect," I said to her, "I'm off-hours and can dress any way I like." I smiled at my student and then forced a smile at my student's mother. "It was nice meeting you."





Fast forward again, to a few hours ago. One of my students saw me from behind, in pom-pom shorts and a tank top, walking to my house from my car. I'd seen them - Wiseass, Sweetheart, and Joe - in my periphery when I made the turn onto my block, but their identities hadn't registered until I heard the smacking of lips and cat-calls. Then, the inevitable holla: "Yo, shortie! You lookin' good!"

I almost walked into my house without confronting them. Maybe I would've, if it wasn't for the fact that I'd just attempted to sweat out the rest of my flu, and my attempt did nothing but cause hot flashes.

Anyway, I looked behind me and sucked my teeth. "'Yo, shortie?'" I mimicked mock-menacingly as I walked off my stoop. "'You lookin' good?!' Is that what you really think it takes to garner the attention of a young lady, Wiseass?"

Their jaws were on the floor. Their eyes were bugshot. No way in hell it could be their afterschool poetry teacher. No. Way. In. Hell.





I teach an afterschool poetry class in my neighborhood, Monday through Friday, to high school students. I also teach an afterschool poetry class on Saturdays, through a different employer. The mood, attitude, course work, and emphasis in learning are very different between these two jobs, and it shows in the way my students view me.

My Saturday job uses an "It take a village" approach to teaching. There are several teachers and no outright heirarchy or division of power. It's egalitarian and shows the students by example that they are strong, smart, capable individuals who need only to learn how to find reliable information, and how to think for themselves.

My Mon-Fri gig is more authoritarian. They're still under the impression that teenagers know nothing about sex, violence, life... They infantalize the students, make them believe they don't know how to make decisions, mold them into future-yes-men and -women. I attempt to curb that infantilization with lessons about humility, tolerance, acceptance. I talk to the students in group discussions about sexuality, religion, and body image. Students have come to me to ask for guidance about abortions, STDs, problems with their boyfriends/girlfriends, physical and emotional abuse, gang violence/initiation... You name it, I've heard it.

Maybe it's the nature of a poetry class to uncover the heart of a person, or maybe I come across as the kind of teacher who honestly cares about her students' well-being. Maybe it's a combination of the two. Anyway, I find myself building relationships with these teenagers that are definitely not cold or lukewarm. I let them know that I'm available to talk whenever they need an ear, and that I'll write a recommendation if they need one.

Still, there's a big difference between this gig and my Saturday gig. In this gig, I'm an authoritarian figure, and part of that is withholding my own insecurities and flaws and misadventures and doubts. Maybe it's because my boss isn't as liberal as my Saturday boss, or because most of my students are west indian, caribbean, and southeast asian (where traditional, paternal authority is coveted), but I can't show too much of my personality. I can't read them a poem I wrote about sex. I can't discuss my teenage days, running amock with the wrong crowd, getting into fights, almost being sent to juvy, getting wasted every night, etc. I can't vibe with them on this level... whereas, at my Saturday gig, this kind of soul-baring activity is encouraged. EVERYONE - teachers, students - sheds tears and talks about being abandoned, fucking, gang fights, getting jumped, first love, the good stuff. The real stuff. The stuff that matters. There's no ambivalence about "protocol" or "the norm"; there's no hesitation to be one's self; there's no hypocrisy and there's no back-pedaling. We teach on Saturday that people should be real, and "real" means all sorts of things.

But from Monday to Friday, I wear slacks and button-up shirts, vintage blouses and blazers, sweaters and modestly-cut skirts, and slacks that don't accentuate my ass too much. I do it because that's the person that was hired, and she needs to get paid so she can pay her bills. I do it because I don't trust my teaching ability yet, and I'm scared my students would take advantage of me if I was myself with them. I do it because it's safe.

When Wiseass tried to holla at me, and I rebuffed him and his friends, I really and truly wanted to whip out my ebonics accent, tell them stories about talking my way into bars and clubs when I was barely thirteen years old, and blow their minds with my resume: phone sex operator, sex toy reviewer, cocktail waitress, high-end real estate agent, drug dealer, battered women's advocate, non-profit board member, bartender, et al... I wanted to show them the real me. I wanted to say that I might sound like I know all the answers, but really, I'm just playing a part that's loosely written by the New York Dept. of Eduation. I wanted to be fun and irreverent and yet mature and experienced. I wanted to be the obvious answer to a life spent incessently asking questions. I wanted to feel like these students of mine, who spend twenty hours a week with me, know something about me.

So I whipped out my accent and mentioned that I was coming back from the park.

Wiseass cracked that he'd heard I was sick, and that he'd tell the principal that I'd lied. I countered that the principal had seen me earlier today, and he'd said to stay my ass home because I'm still too germ-y.

The exchange wasn't long, and it wasn't obviously meaningful, but it was something. A start. They were too dumbfounded to form coherent sentences, and I pretended like I'd forgotten they were trying to pick me up. In two or three minutes, we'd established a repoire and I said I had to go inside. Then I left them there, on the sidewalk, in front of my house, aghast at what had just occurred.

In the shower, I thought about Ms. Stein, and my student's mother, and Wiseass and his buddies. I thought about how the different choices we make alter peoples' perceptons of us, and how things look so different when you reach the other side of a paradigm. Still buzzing with thoughts after my shower ended, I cracked open a notebook and finished up my lesson plans.