Anne was a transfer student at our middle school. She entered my 8th grade Spanish class right before the winter break, having had some Spanish but less than the rest of the class. An African American from Brooklyn, she looked much older and more worldly than the other girls. She entered poorly dressed, with no notebook or pen, promptly slumping into a seat in the back.
For several weeks Anne answered only one or two questions on my quizzes, did no homework, and sat quietly, rarely looking up. Early on she had confessed after one class, “I didn't understand a word you said.” I smiled and replied “You will.” But I'm ashamed to say I thought “How the hell am I going to get her to pass?”
In late January she wrote a note of apology on a quiz for knowing so little. I responded with a note of reassurance, telling her I understood how difficult it was to compete with more advanced students and to adjust to a new school. I told her I hoped she would keep trying. I saw her smile when she read the note, and after class she confided that she had missed two months of school before transferring. My heart broke for her and I gave her a hug.
Anne did improve, though. She came within five points of passing the next quiz, so I ignored a few errors and gave her a 70. “You did it! I'm so proud of you!” I wrote, drawing a smile face on her paper. That's when the transformation began. She started passing every quiz and test, and her scores were rising. She began slipping into my extra practice sessions, sitting quietly by herself, looking so out of place in a room filled with honors students looking to turn their 95s into 100s.
April brought still better news. Anne got the highest grade in the class on a very difficult quiz—a 96. When I quietly told her she responded with a giggle and “Oh, my God, get outta here!” I was elated. How could any student come sofar in so short a time? I had to tell Guidance.
Anne's counselor looked puzzled. Anne was failing everything but Spanish and regularly getting in trouble in other classes; her mother had been called in that very morning. Her counselor told me Anne's home life was troubled and she was hanging with a bad crowd. My heart sank. Anne continued to do well in Spanish, furiously taking notes. I looked forward to her big smile and her “Hey, Ms. B!” every morning.
Recently I left the middle school to teach Spanish at a nearby high school. Anne, too, should have moved on to high school by now, but I'd lost touch with her and doubted I'd see her again. By chance I happened to run into a friend of hers the other day. To my great relief, she told me Anne is indeed enrolled in the school where I'll be teaching this fall; so we'll both be experiencing a new beginning this time.
I think about Anne a lot. I know doing well in Spanish is not enough. I keep trying to trace all the steps, to figure out what made her change so much in my class. What was the key that opened the door for her? I remember hearing a speaker once who said, “It takes a whole village to ruin a child.” I thought he was being cleverly cynical, but in fact, maybe it was a statement of hope. Maybe most children have somewhere within them a need to succeed—a need so strong that it takes an entire village to do them in. Maybe if they latch on to even one success they can keep going. I hope so. I know one success is not enough, and Anne's life is more than Spanish with me.
