Many moons ago I started off as a high school English teacher. I was 22, but looked even younger, teaching at an inner city high school in Brooklyn, NY, which was a far cry from the Midwest suburban educational experience of my youth. I can still vividly remember my feelings of terror and intimidation during my first year of dreaded parent teacher conferences. The details of the parents’ faces and the content of the conversations are mostly a blur. I will forever remember the father who sat across from me, arms folded, with a stern and somewhat disappointed look on his face as he asked me how exactly I was going to challenge his advanced level son and prepare him for the state Regents exam. Aside from him, however, very few of these many conferences really stand out. What I can recall as easily as the day I lived it is the racing heart and sweaty palms, the stuttered conversation, the many “ums”, and “wells” I inserted into my speech, and racking my brain to clearly communicate all the things I knew about each student. I remember feeling like I wasn’t even really sure of what I was saying; I was just trying to fill the 20 minutes and get through the conference. It was as though all the hours and hours I spent with them had never happened and I couldn’t think of a good example of why this kid was getting a D in my class (which almost always had to do with the fact that he hadn’t turned in a single homework assignment in my class all year). I just remember feeling defensive and wrong. Most parents didn’t challenge me and yet I felt as though somehow they were seeing through me, through my inexperience and inability. I could imagine the conversations between parent and child when they returned home. “That Miss Kehoe sure doesn’t know what she’s doing, does she? I should call the principal tomorrow and see if I can get you transferred to another class. Dr. Rampersad has a lot more experience. AND a PhD! If Miss Kehoe wasn’t white I’d have thought she was another student in your class.” “Yeah, she’s dumb. I should probably start a fire in her class tomorrow to show her a lesson. Then I’ll fall asleep and refuse to wake up. It’ll be awesome.”
Ahh the horrors. I wanted so desperately to show these parents how much I cared about my job, about their son or daughter, how much I wanted them to learn. And I sat tongue-tied, intimidated and scared.
Last week I had a chance to sit across the table during another parent teacher conference. Only this time, I was the parent. Monster is in school now and every Tuesday and Thursday he spends the morning in Ms. Brandi’s class learning and growing and transforming before my very eyes. I sat across from Ms. Brandi for our first parent teacher conference and I felt scared, intimidated, and tongue-tied. I found myself racking my brain trying to think of an insightful question, wanting so desperately for this teacher, who is likely younger than me, to approve of me. To approve of my son. I worried that she could see through me and realized I have no idea what I’m doing with my hearing impaired son and most days I feel inadequate and ill prepared for the task of raising him. And I found myself awkwardly emotional as I tried to convey my appreciation for this teacher and this school. They are doing all the things I can’t. They are teaching my son to listen, to hear, to communicate, to understand. They are nurturing him and loving him and giving him all the tools he needs to thrive in life despite his hearing impairment.
As I recall this experience I am struck by how very similar my conference experiences were as both the teacher and the parent. It had never occurred to me, those many moons ago, that the parents who sat across from me could have been just as nervous, overwhelmed, scared and intimidated as I was. Or that Ms. Brandi could have been feeling some of those same emotions as I had been during our conference.
And it’s moments like these, when I come face to face with the reality that we are all really just the same, that my insecurities and fears are really no different from someone else’s, that I could weep with relief that I am not abnormal. I think we all walk around assuming we are the only ones who have ever thought these thoughts and felt these feelings. We let that isolation sink us deeper into negative self-talk. Reminders that the voice that lurks deepest inside our heart is more alike to one another than different is good for me. It quiets that voice when it tells me to be fearful and it opens up my heart to allow God to speak peace and love and freedom.
