I think what I will miss the most about my job here at FE, is the space in which to write about my amazing students. I feel incredibly privileged to have the chance to work with them.

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Yesterday I was standing in the hallway at work, fumbling as usual for the keys to my office and a young woman rounded the corner, a chubby-cheeked baby in her arms. I recognized her immediately as one of the students I taught about a year ago--one of the students from this class. She'd been pregnant then--clearly with the little guy she held in her arms.

"Student S.!" I said in surprise. "So good to see you!"

We caught up a little on things--I found out she had taken a semester off after her pregnancy, and she's back now, thank goodness. I have wondered about her from time to time, because she'd promised to visit soon after her baby was born and she never did. I often wonder about my students, especially the ones who make an impact on me (whether negatively or positively). I feel compelled to know their stories, to wonder after them when they're gone; often I worry about them, the way a mother might. And the ones who disappear? They really haunt me. I was happy to see her on the college campus again--happy she brought her son by for a visit.

Years ago a teacher-friend advised me to never teach material that I was in love with, or that I was personally invested in. You'll only be broken-hearted and let-down when your students are dismissive or, worse yet--bored, she said. I've never really been sure whether I want to believe in that advice, though. It's true that I have felt very let-down at times when students dismiss material that I'm excited about; yet, I also firmly believe that students need to see their teachers passionate about what they teach--just like kids need to see their parents passionate about their work, or their hobbies and dreams.

On Monday I got to record a short bit about my grandmother's olive bread--for a segment on food memories that will air on The Story next week. It was fun to do, and even though I didn't get to say everything I wanted to say about my grandmother (it was about food, after all), it meant a lot to me to talk about her--even briefly--over the air. When I stop and think about it, it seems a little strange, this notion of food memories, or of having food memories. Yet I think very few people could say that they don't have any, or that their childhoods weren't shaped, or marked, or punctuated in even the smallest way, by some memory of food, and the person, or people cooking it. 

My food memories are good, and rich, and as comforting to me as an embrace--especially the memories I have of my grandmother, busy in her kitchen. I hope the food memories I create in my kitchen, for my children, are good and rich, too. When we first saw our house, while it was still on the market, and while we weren't even technically supposed to be looking, I fell in love with the kitchen. It is in sore need of updating, but it was, as they say in realtor lingo, those "bones" I liked--the long, well-lit space, the fact that it is joined at one end to the family room, and the other end to the office. There is no doubt at all that our kitchen is the heart of our home, just as my parents' kitchen was--and still is--the heart of my childhood home, and my grandmother's tiny but utilitarian kitchen was the heart of her home.

I love teaching, and I love my job. But like any job, you can also go through ups and downs--days when you feel undervalued, and spread-too-thin, and plain old frustrated with the people around you. Actually, parenting can be like that, too. But because teaching involves so much public performance, and energy, and sorting out of personalities and learning needs inside the classroom, it can also be particularly draining--more so than other jobs, I think. A bad day in the classroom can catch you in a web of self-doubts: Am I good teacher? Was I prepared enough? Have I lost my touch? Did I present the material in the wrong way? Explain too much? Too little?

And it's been a rocky, draining, I'm-spread-too-thin week so far, with lots of rough classes, and self-doubts flowing right and left. Yesterday, I was sitting in my office, feeling a little sorry for myself, and trying not to look at the stack of homework papers waiting to be checked, when a student dropped by. I sighed a little inside--not because I didn't want to see him, but because so far this week it seems as if every student I come across has some complaint: too much work, too little work, work that's too boring (really!), work that's confusing, work that hasn't been done, work that was done but not turned in and here's why, work they don't want to do and here's why. I am gracious about complaints when I can be, because they help make me a better teacher--I know that, but they do wear on you after awhile.

When I saw this student I braced myself. He's in an afternoon class I'm having particular troubles with--mostly because of a small handful of students with, as I call it, "strong personalities." What would he say now? What issues would I have to field and sort out for him?

He came and sat down in the big chair by my desk. He looked nervous, and a little ill-at-ease.

I've been thinking lately about two students: both are bright and capable. Both come from disadvantaged backgrounds. One, Student A, spent four years of his life in an impoverished country far away, under dire conditions--we're talking not-even-money-for-shoes, conditions. The other, Student B, grew up "on the streets" as they say, in dire conditions of another sort. Both ended up, improbably you could say, in college. Student A, like Student B, was an underachiever all through school. He got into trouble, didn't care about his studies because, as he says now, he couldn't see the value of an education--couldn't see into the future to conceptualize the long-term investment that college is meant to be, so he let it all go--got into trouble with the law, kept his mother up at night scared and worried, let his grades slip further and further down until he almost hit rock bottom. In college, though, something happened to him. Some spark was ignited his freshman year and he realized that doing well in school actually felt good. He could do this! He studied hard, pulled himself together, and became an honors student with a 3.8 GPA and places to go. He has an 18-month old daughter and he desperately wants to be a role model for her because, he realizes, bringing a child into the world is a responsibility like none other.

This has been my life all weekend, long, and continuing into this week. 

I was walking with a good friend/neighbor the other day and we spent some time lamenting about the State of Things with Young People today--a favorite topic. She teaches too--although in a different field--so we commiserated about baffling--and sometimes downright disturbing and difficult--student responses to topics even remotely connected to ethics and values.

(Stepping onto my soapbox for a few minutes...)

It's the last week of classes before final exams next week. Finals! The word thrills me.

Yesterday morning, December 1st, I was pouring hot water over my PG Tips and I heard T. exclaim from the stairs: "Happy 1st of December today!" She had spied the advent calendars propped up on the hallway bench and the sight of them filled her with glee. We almost didn't have the calendars in time, because the first of the month had slipped from my radar for much of the week--until I was standing in the checkout line with L. at that market the other day and remembered to buy them.

This is the time of the semester when I get desperate. I pull out all the stops when it comes to begging and pleading with my students to get it all together in time for final exams, which are only three weeks away. I try and weave inspirational stories into my lesson plans; I become more of a motivational speaker/coach and I expend vast amounts of energy trying to get my students across the finish line.

Some will make it, others will not.