Marina is beautiful. It’s not just her long silky hair or her big dark eyes; it’s her 100-watt smile. She’s a teacher’s dream in so many ways – cheerful, quick to volunteer to erase the whiteboard, pass out papers, or tidy the bookshelf.
She greets me daily with a hug, and gives me another at dismissal. Add to that the hugs she gives me spontaneously throughout the day: because it’s recess time, because I told her “Good job,” or gave her a work a happy-face stamp. There’s no way to dislike Marina.
Marina struggles academically. She tries mightily in every subject, but her grasp of basic concepts is elusive. She comes to me repeatedly, “I know you showed me how to add fractions with unlike denominators, but I just don’t remember.” She doesn’t cry or sulk; her joy when she finally remembers all the steps to a complicated math problem or passes a reading test is contagious.
Some nights she’ll text me for help with homework. I give students and parents my phone number at the beginning of the school year, with the caveat that I don’t answer phone calls but am great about texting. I also issue a solemn warning to students that I’d better never receive a giggling “Is your refrigerator running? You’d better catch it!” phone call. Marina texts me to ask how to do the math homework, or what should be included in the paragraph I assigned, or if she understood the main point of the reading. I work out sample problems, snap photos of them, and send them to her as guides. She is always so grateful I wish I could send her an embrace through the phone as well.
The first time Marina complained to me about a headache, I looked at her slicked-back tight ponytail with a giant bow pinned perkily on top. It’s not an uncommon style for 5th grade girls in my community, but it would certainly give me a headache. I sent her to the health office and didn’t think much of it. A parent brought her pain medication and she returned to class. I recommended that she try a different hairstyle or wear her hair loose.
A few days later, she came to me complaining of pain once more. “My whole body hurts.” She didn’t whine, just whispered matter-of-factly. I hoped she wasn’t coming down with the flu. Again, I sent her to the health office, and again, she returned after her mom brought her medication.
I started to observe Marina more closely. Although she was as cheerful as always, as hard-working and willing to please, she was logging a lot of time in the health office. I wondered if it was her way of getting out of class, of expressing her frustration with work that gets harder and harder as the school year progresses. I watched to see if her attitude was changing.
It hasn’t. Beautiful Marina still hugs me multiple times a day, still smiles with glee when she understands the assignment, still thanks me effusively when I sit with her to work.
Her nightly texts have begun to change though. In addition to “I don’t get the math,” she will add, always apologetically, “I’ll be out tomorrow; I have to go to the hospital” or “My pain meds aren’t working.” She texts a lot about pain, a degree of physical pain I would never have imagined watching her sunny attitude in the classroom, a quantity of pain Marina’s classmates have not noticed. Nightly, through texts, I explain math or talk about the Plains tribes or the structure of the essay due tomorrow. I gently ask about her condition, throw in a few jokes to lighten the mood, and then remind her it’s bedtime. She ends the conversation each night by telling me I’m her favorite teacher and that she’s sad when she misses school.
There is so little I can do for Marina. I can’t take away her pain; in fact it will get worse over time. Because of her learning difficulties, I may not even ensure that she understands fractions or writes fluidly. However, I will greet her brilliant smile with one of my own each day, make sure every hug of hers is matched by a stronger one from me, and give her the very best school year possible. It’s not enough, but it’s the best I’ve got.
