It's tough to be a girl

During my first hour a young man was reading a note instead of paying attention to my instructions. His grade in my class was pretty bad, so I decided to quietly take the note from him. He wasn't trying to hide it, and he didn't seem upset when I took it.

I made my way back to my podium, finished giving instructions, and then read the note. The print was bold, blue and loopy with hearts and wavy scribbles draped across the empty spaces. I didn't need to read it to know what was going on, but of course I did anyway.

A girl in one of my later classes was asking this young man out. It was thoughtful and considerate and well written. I thought it was a very unawkward note for such an awkward request. I slipped the note into my book a few pages behind the section we were reading.

Later, just after I had sent in the roll for my next class, I noticed the girl that had written the note sitting at the back of the room. I held the note up to give it to her and before I could say anything, and I mean anything she brought both hands up to her eyes, began sobbing and ran out of the room to the counselor's office. I was shocked. The rest of the class said that she already dealt with that situation, and that it did not go well.

Of course, as soon as she returned I apologized and again I was impressed with the maturity with which she accepted my apology.

In my last class of the day one of my normally happy students had a distant expression on her face. Of course, I figured that she was sad from some other teen relationship gone awry, so I asked her if she was alright. She said, "Yes."

"Well, good," I said. "I just noticed that you looked like you were a long way away just now."

She said, "I was a long way away. Sometimes it is just difficult." There was a pause.

"What is difficult?" I asked.

"Mr. Gibson did you know that my mother died last Christmas?"

My shoulders slumped forward, and I sighed heavily and said, "I am so sorry. I had no idea."

"Yeah, Mr. Gibson, sometimes I can't help wondering what this next Christmas will be like."

I said nothing for quite a while. I didn't know what to say. Finally, I asked her if she lived with her dad and if they were making plans.

She said, "No, Mr. Gibson, I live with my grandparents. My dad's in prison. I do hope to see him soon though."

Here is what I want you to understand. Both of these young ladies have been great in my class room. I am proud of them both, but as I think about it I just realize how pleased I am to have students in my class who can teach me as much as I can teach them.