It feels like just yesterday when I was standing before your class on the first day of school, reading my favorite passage from The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd.
“While we read, I want you all to think about how a story about bees in a glass jar relates to being a 6th grade student in South Oak Cliff,” I announced and began reading:
“At night, I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making the propeller sound, a high pitched zzzzz that hummed along my skin. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seem.
One morning a bee landed on the state map I kept tacked on the wall. I watched it walk along the coast of South Carolina on scenic Highway 17. I clamped the mouth of a clear glass jar against the wall, trapping it between Charleston and Georgetown. When I slid on the lid, it went into a tailspin, throwing itself against the glass over and over again with pops and clicks, reminding me of the hail that landed sometimes on the windows.”
“Did the bee belong in the glass jar? What did it love to do?”
“I’d made the jar as nice as I could with felty petals, fat with pollen, and more than enough nail holes in the lid to keep the bees from perishing. But the bee could see out of the glass, and it knew that it was trapped inside the jar.
I brought the jar level with my nose. ‘Look at this thing fight,’ I thought.
I spent the rest of the morning capturing bees.
That night I looked at the jar of bees on my dresser. The poor creatures perched on the bottom barely moving, obviously pining away for flight. I remembered then the way they’d slipped from the cracks in my walls and flown for the sheer joy of it.”
“Why are the bees barely moving? Can you relate to this story yet? If so, how?”
“I unscrewed the lid and set it aside.
‘You can go,’ I said.
But the bees remained there, like planes on a runway not knowing they’d been cleared for takeoff. They crawled on their stalk legs around the curved perimeters of the glass as if the world had shrunk to that jar. I tapped the glass, even laid the jar on its side, but those crazy bees stayed put.”
“Why do you think the bees stayed put, even after they were free?”
A quivering hand from the middle of the room: “Maybe they didn’t want to fly anymore,” you whispered. “Maybe the bees just gave up on doing what they loved.”
The story resonated deeply with you. Over the past ten months, at lunch and during P.E., on my planning period and after school, we have talked about how you can relate to those exhausted bees. You told me that you often feel trapped in a glass jar of poverty.
“Why try to fight for a better life someday? This is all there is for me,” you said at lunch one day in October with a fire burning in your eyes and fists clenched.
You were believing the lie that poverty is destiny, because you sensed that you were trapped, just like the bees in the jar were prevented from doing what they loved to do, because they were held back by a lid that limited their world to perimeters of the glass.
What’s worse is that your jar is glass, meaning you can see out of it. The opportunities for improving your life trajectory – to finish school, attend and graduate from college and get a well-paying job – are visible from behind the glass, but seemingly unattainable.
I chose to teach in South Oak Cliff to help you and your classmates recognize and overcome limitations like poverty, so that you could discover your limitless potential.
All year, I’ve been twisting and turning the tightly sealed lid on your jar. Why do we read 20 minutes a night? Why do I drill grammar and spelling? What is the point of being asked to think and articulate and communicate your ideas in a way that other people will find compelling?
There is a lid on your jar, and the work that we have been accomplishing in my classroom is clearing a path for you to fly freely.
In August, I promised I would be your advocate. I told you that I would get to know you personally so that I could provide the help and support that you need to be successful in school and beyond. I told you I would stand up for you, take responsibility for helping you in every way possible, seek out opportunities that will help you reach your personal goals, answer your questions and find the resources you need to be successful.
But you and I both know that my hard work to muscle the lid off your jar will never be enough.
In The Secret Life of Bees, even after the little girl removes the barriers that prevent the bees from being free to do what they love, “the bees remained there, like planes on a runway not knowing they’d been cleared for takeoff.”
Your reading level has improved by two years in the span of just one school year. Your writing and critical thinking now set the standard for your peers. That pesky lid is loosening, and now the rest of the story is in your hands. If you continue to believe the lie that you are not able to achieve your dreams, your world will stay small, confined to the limits others have placed on you.
Don’t forget that you are a bumblebee. Scientists used to think that your body was too heavy to fly. That your wings couldn’t possibly support your weight.
So how does a young woman growing up in the “wrong” neighborhood without proper documentation or fluent English language skills spread her wings and fly?
She beats her flimsy, overlooked wings 11,000 times per second. She works harder to do the things she loves to prove the statistics wrong.
Just like the bumblebee, you cannot afford to let other people’s ideas about what you are capable of limit your potential. You must work hard to reach your goals and advocate for yourself if you want to be free.
Poverty is not destiny.
Even bumblebees can fly.
Your jar is open.
All my love,
I adore seeing your smiling face in the hallway every morning.
“Ms. Jackson!” you squeal as if it’s the first time you’ve seen me in months, rather than hours. “I can’t wait ‘til I’m in your class next year.”
Well. I have a secret. Can you keep it?
I’m not coming back next year.
“You are going to have the most amazing 6th grade reading teacher, my dear!”
How long is that line going to work before you realize that I’m not talking about myself? I dislike crafting these vague statements and lies of omission, but I’m not ready to let everyone know yet.
I will miss your smiling face and the opportunity to build relationships with the 107 other 5th grade students I won’t teach next year.
But I will not miss teaching. I will not miss these fluorescent lights, the crowded halls, this classroom.
I’m not cut out for this. I’m not the best person for this job. You deserve a teacher with more experience, grit, creativity, passion and disciplinary skills.
I truly, deeply, hope that you will have the best reading teacher in the world next year.
But she won’t be me.
All my love,
Thank you for your bravery and honesty today. It takes strength of character most people have not developed by age 12 to see what you saw and report it to me.
I know you’re worried that students will call you a “snitch,” because you “tattled” on one of the most popular boys in the 6th grade. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent that from happening, but sometimes, when we stand up for what is right, the people who have made a shameful decision feel the weight of their guilt and look to shift the attention to someone else. You’ll have to be prepared for this.
“There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must take it because conscience tells him it is right.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
I am proud of you for doing what you know is right.
All my love,
I know our school day is long. I too, want to go home and take a nap around 3:30 every afternoon when we see kids from nearby schools skipping past our window on their way home.
But you and I both know the intentional reasons why we don’t dismiss until 4:55. You are safer at school during that often-grueling, additional hour and a half than you are wandering around Deerpath Park or walking past the McDonalds on the corner of Keist and Illinois. And, this extra time at school, when used for its intended purpose of character building and additional academic instruction, is essential for ensuring that you and your classmates are on a path to college.
However, when you come into my classroom at 3:30 for afternoon advisory and decide it’s a good idea to NaeNae around the room with an open sunbutter snack cup in your hand, you are not making a wise use of our extended school day.
The sunbutter dance move you invented today created a gigantic mess of sticky, brown goo all over my classroom blinds. Mr. Torres had to spend additional time out of his day to clean up after you.
I’ve already spoken with your aunt. She and I agreed that your actions in afternoon advisory merit a further extension of your school day tomorrow. You will help Mr. Torres clean after school until 6 p.m. to make up for the extra work you created for him today.
I need you to be excellent from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. I expect the best from you, because to demand anything less would be to teach you that the work we are doing together is not valuable.
All my love,
For teaching us everything we need to know to pass the STAAR. Also for believing in us when no one else did. Plus for giving us the power and the mindset that we can be anything we can be and that reading is fun and that we can achieve our dreams. Most importantly…
For being the best and awesome teacher ever!!!
Overwhelmed by the nine short days until the STAAR test, I was crying in the hallway this morning. Inside my head, I heard the all-too-familiar chorus of accusatory voices.
“You haven’t done enough to prepare your students for this test.”
“They won’t pass, and it’s all your fault.”
“You can’t even get them to stay in their seats and stop shouting out in the middle of a lesson; how could you have imagined that they would be reading on grade level by April 22?”
Unexpectedly, I heard your voice cut through the clutter in my mind.
“Ms. Jackson, you ok? Why are you crying?”
I couldn’t begin to explain what I had hoped to accomplish in nine short months. How I repeatedly failed you and your classmates every time I delivered lessons that weren’t rigorous enough or relevant or interesting or even properly copied because I was too tired to make sure the pages stapled in the right order.
“Just allergies, Karah. My eyes are watering a little, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, ok… Are you allergic to bad behavior, Miss? Cuz I’m pretty done with the way they been treating you in 3rd period.”
In that moment, the angry mob in my head stopped to listen to you. I had to ask myself what I originally set out to do when I signed up to teach.
I wanted to foster genuine, transformative relationships with students who have so often been overlooked. I wanted my students to learn how to read, for goodness’ sake, and we still have a long way to go there, yes, but the STAAR test is just one measure. This exam is only a sliver of what a you and your classmates have learned in a year.
What about empathy, respect, and compassion? What about a true love of reading? The grit and tenacity that unfurls as you put your pencil to the scantron one more time, even if we both know your score is likely going to be lower than average.
I smiled and looked down at you, wiping away the last stubborn tear.
“Yes, the doctor says I’m allergic to bad behavior, and the STAAR test.”
Your eyes widened as you shook your head and giggled.
“You funny, Ms. Jackson. I hope you move up and teach us in 7th grade next year.”
The truth is, you deserve more than a teacher who is funny and fun. With the STAAR test looming, I have to confront the brutal facts that I was not a strong enough teacher to lead you, academically, to the place you deserve to be at this point in the year.
We didn’t make up the years of reading growth that needed to happen, but you did improve, academically and as a woman of character and integrity. Perhaps there is hope yet for the remaining weeks. I’m not giving up on teaching the TEKS you need to know for 7th grade or modeling character qualities that will carry you through your adolescent years, like kindness and courage.
We have much to learn and very little time. You with me?
All my love,