Pandemic and Pedagogy: A Personal Narrative

This essay was written during the spring quarter of 2022 during my time at the University of Denver toward the end of my junior year. It was written for a course titled "Peer Tutoring in Writing" taught by Dr. Megan Kelly. The prompt was to write about an experience that has affected our perspective on literacy, so I chose to write about my time teaching supplementary writing courses over the summer.

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Teaching my students in the middle of the pandemic was an eye-opening experience. It was my first formal teaching experience. I had volunteered at my local youth center before, tutoring military children on an individual basis, but I’d never been given an entire class to teach. My lesson plans were not prescribed. They were my responsibility to create. I excitedly put together PowerPoints to share with my students before our first class, half-nervous that I was somehow missing a key part of the core curriculum (checking, double-checking, triple-checking), half-excited over the cute and engaging graphics I was creating that contrasted so harshly with the stark white backgrounds with black Arial text my teachers had subjected me to in the past. I was assigned two writing courses that summer: one for second graders entering the third grade, and the other for kindergartners entering the first grade. Though I would teach my classes early in the morning then immediately change into my Subway uniform, working from 7 in the morning to 10 o’clock at night, not counting the time I put in for lesson plans, there was never a day where I didn’t want to wake up and see my students. Every single student did their part in redefining what literacy meant for me, but one student stood out.

I was, unfortunately, subjected to the Alabaman public education system as a child. It was a system akin to Freire’s concept of the banking system of education, only it was even more stagnant than your average primary school experience. Having traveled between many state education systems during my early elementary years, all Southern and underfunded, my education was rocky starting out and there were many core concepts I missed and had to make up for later. (I will hesitantly admit that to this day, I do not know my multiplication tables off the top of my head.)

My first day of the second grade, my teacher passed out a math assignment. I stared blankly at my paper. I had never seen a minus sign in my life and did not know what subtraction was. Too embarrassed to ask, I guessed my answers. The same teacher passed out a different paper later in the day. It was an icebreaker assignment. She read the sentences on it out loud. “My favorite food is blank,” she said. “What I want for Christmas is blank. My favorite color is blank.” Never mind the Christian-centric questions, I wrote down the word “blank” in every single space, thinking it’s what I was supposed to do. I was pulled out of class and reprimanded harshly for being a “smart aleck.” I still remember how her breath smelled, she was so close to my face. I had never felt more stupid. I still had a report card full of straight A’s, presumably because my teachers didn’t care enough to challenge me, despite me guessing answers and being a “smart aleck.” I never struggled with my report cards before I moved to Colorado in the fourth grade.

Ms. Maddy was the name of my new English teacher. I remember that she had curly hair, she was deaf in one ear, she was very loud, and that she had to leave class to use the bathroom a lot. I loved her. I submitted my first essay to her, fully expecting an A. I received a D and a paper covered with red marks. “Indent!” one annotation read. I had never heard of “indentation” before in my life. My paper was soon soaked with tears. She talked to me after class, that day. “Do you know what ‘indentation’ is?” she said in her ever loud but never mean voice. “No,” I responded earnestly. That’s where we started. Her class was full of Shakespeare plays, mini spelling bees, scones and tea, exciting and energetic lessons, painted walls and colorful paper hanging from the ceiling. I had never experienced anything like it. I ended the year with a B minus in English. It somehow felt better than the A’s I’d received before.

From there, my English teachers continued to cultivate my potential and truly changed my life. Recently, my mother told me she thought I was going to go into psychology or some other subject like that. I asked why she didn’t think I’d be going into English. “Just didn’t realize you were that good at it,” she responded, clearly remembering my struggle in the past.

I kept that in mind as I tutored my own students. The student who struggled the most and who I felt the most compassionate toward was named Niko. He was the only student in his class who did not know his alphabet and could only recognize about two letters. Even then, he didn’t know what sounds they made and did not understand lowercase and uppercase letters. His peers were able to write entire sentences with a few choice “big words” spelled conventionally rather than phonetically. He scribbled on paper and would make up a sentence to go with it. I asked him to share his paper with the class during our first meeting so I could take a picture of it to look over. He refused. I did not push him. Inspired by many educators’ theories in a world plagued by public educators who seem to have no rhyme or reason to their methods (or lost it somewhere along the way), instead opting to act as a short-tempered babysitter, I made a point to keep endless patience and curiosity with my students. I wanted to be firm but never mean. Luckily, cultivating an environment where my students liked having me as an educator meant they did not want to disappoint me. After all, elementary-aged students tend to be little people pleasers. Though Niko never even came close to testing my patience, personally, I wondered if his behavior was either a result of, or an instigator to, a less than stellar kindergarten teacher. Likely both.

He stopped bringing pencils and paper with him. Every class, I would ask him to try and remember his materials next time. He hardly did. I e-mailed his parents and got no response. Later, I decided to have a one-on-one session with Niko and began to teach him his alphabet. I remember wishing so much that I could bring him the materials he needed, even some shaving cream for him to trace letters into in a more tactile way, but I was stuck instructing him through a computer screen. We sang the alphabet song, I had him repeat the sounds they made, and I showed him the capital versions of the letters. I praised him where I could. Remembering Ms. Maddy’s colorful classroom, I began constructing colorful and engaging assignments specifically for Niko. The bond I formed with him was strong.

One day, he got frustrated during classtime and shouted in the middle of my lesson, “I don’t like this class! I don’t want to be here.” Everyone paused. I didn’t know what to say for a tense few seconds. “Niko,” I finally said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I can help you with your assignment today later on.” I’d be lying if I said my feelings weren’t hurt.

We continued the lesson for about a minute before another student interjected. He was easily what others might call the “star student” of my class. He said calmly but firmly, “I think that was a really rude thing to say, Niko.”

There was another pause. Niko looked down for a couple of seconds then looked back up at his screen. He unmuted himself. “I’m sorry, teacher,” he said. I thanked him for his apology, forgave him, and got back on track. I was impressed by the emotional maturity of both students and felt a bit of bittersweet pride. Like I said I would, I helped him with his assignment later. By the end of our course, he knew most of his alphabet but still didn’t quite understand capital and lowercase letters and their function. He still didn’t like sharing his work. I found it hard to let him go and could only hope that he would do well when he entered the first grade.

Having been like Niko, once, I realized something important about my relationship with my teachers. Good teachers are not burdened by their struggling students. I always assumed that many of my teachers dreaded having me in class as I floundered through elementary school and that the “best” students were always the “favorites.” Teachers, in general, are not supposed to have “favorite” students, but I found that I did—it was Niko. After having him in my class, I realized that only a teacher who truly cared about me would put that kind of effort in, the same kind I replicated with my own students. I realized that maybe I was someone’s favorite, too, not in spite of being the student who struggled the most, but because of that. They gave me plenty of space to struggle in order to ensure my success. I didn’t know how loved I was until I felt that care for my own student. Hopefully, Niko will comprehend that care someday, too.