Parent-teacher conferences are among the highlights of the school year for me.
Conferences are a chance to connect with students at a deeper level. During a busy school day, there aren’t many free moments just to chat. Some days the longest non-interrupted conversation I have is with the line leader on the way to the cafeteria for lunch. In a 15-minute conference, I can whisper, plead, nudge, or tease students toward reaching their potential.
“Mi amor, I see the possibility for greatness in you. I don’t understand why you choose mediocrity. How are you going to grow up to become un gran hombre, a great man, if you don’t do your best?” If I say this softly and sincerely enough, in a voice dripping with sadness and love, I can bring a child to tears and exact a sniffling promise to work harder.
It’s instructive to watch children in the presence of their parents as well. Conferences bring opportunities to see which apples didn’t fall far from the tree, to hear the backstories of my challenging students, and to reiterate to parents that we’re working toward the same goal.
“We brought you to this country so you can get ahead, learn English, and make a better life for yourself. How dare you waste your time? Don’t you value the sacrifice we are making? Look at your father and I. Don’t you want an easier life than we have?” I will use this in the future. Oh, boy, will I use this. When Briana doesn’t want to read, to speak English, or to complete homework, I will remind her of her father’s back-breaking labor and her mother’s long work hours, and gently guilt-trip her into applying herself again.
“I’m not Jade’s mother. I’m her sister. Our mom got deported. My dad is raising us, but he works many hours, so I’m in charge of Jade. I thought I was doing my best with her, but I guess I can try harder.” Both Jade and her sincere older sister will need some propping up, and some sensitivity when making Mother’s Day projects. Children like her are the reason any paper that gets sent home is prefaced with, “Please give this to your mom, dad, grandma, aunt, uncle, or grownup in charge of you.”
“Maestra, I forgot my glasses at home. Can you read Nataly’s report card to me?” It took me a few years to figure out that this often signals a parent who isn’t a strong reader. I will make a mental note to call this mom in the future instead of texting or emailing. I won’t ask her to sign paperwork until I have explained it to her. I won’t nag her about reading with Nataly.
“Adam doesn’t listen to me.” I will ask if he has chores at home; invariably he doesn’t. I will recommend that Adam’s parents confiscate his Ipod, laptop, cell phone, or video games. Generally they won’t, and in three months we will have the same conversation: “Adam doesn’t listen to me.”
“Every teacher says the same things about Jaime. I am so tired of hearing about what he does wrong.” Before I answer this mom, I will reflect on the countless times I’ve sat in my car in tears after my own child’s conference because I too am tired of having the same conversation every year about things I don’t know how to fix, or how often I have prayed that teachers would see the best parts of my child and not just mentally file him away under “Doesn’t turn in homework.” When I finally speak, I will promise her that this year will be different and reassure her that Jaime is loved whether or not he can be quiet in class or read at grade level, but that together we will work on fixing those things.
It’s hard to say all that needs to be said in a twenty minute conference. Along with reviewing grades and goals, I feel compelled to remind students that education is society’s free gift to them, meant to prepare them for a better life, and that only a fool turns away a free gift. I want to reassure parents, “You’re doing fine. Keep doing your best. Your child will be fine.” Mostly this is not a lie, although it might the tiniest bit of a generous exaggeration at times.
Conference week is an exhausting week, comprised of long days that begin well before students arrive and end long after they leave. After I usher the last parent out on Friday evening, hug the last tearful child and extract the last promise of improvement, I take a deep breath and smile, knowing that thanks to these tiny pockets of shared time, Monday will be bright with promise.
