The following is a Lenten reflection written by Danny Tortelli, one of this year's South House Volunteers.
Maybe a week before
Thanksgiving break during my first year of Amate, I found myself standing in
the cafeteria of Perspectives as a lunchroom chaperone. I wasn't in there long
before an 8th grade scholar of mine, Kenny, came up to
me.
“Mr. Tortelli, you get
my Turkey-gram?” With my mind in a million other places,
it sadly took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about. It was
an assignment that was given to the middle school students in their Disciplined
Life (or “character-building”) classes. Here, each student would write a turkey
themed telegram to a staff member about how grateful they are for said
individual. At the time I highly doubted I, as a first year volunteer teachers-assistant
with a last name only 2 letters away from “tortilla”, would be receiving one of
these kind and cute affirmations when it seemed only the well-seasoned, easier
to pronounce staff members were getting them.
“No, I haven't,” I told
him. “I don't have a desk for deliveries.” He laughed and shook my hand. “Oh,
they're probably gonna deliver it right to you. I wrote one for you to say
thanks for helping me on my math test.” At this point I didn't really care
where it was, or if I ever got the chance to see it. The thought in itself was
warming, but to get to the heart of why this Turkey-gram meant so much, you
need the whole story:
This same student had
his fair share of setbacks. Behaviorally and academically, he struggled. Very
cordial and kind when talking one-on-one, he would often zone out, talk to
other students, or “explore” the fine inner-workings of writing utensils
instead of paying attention to lessons when working alone.
At the end of my first
day of interventions with him, it didn't look like we'd be going far that year.
I spent as much time that first day getting him to stop cracking jokes and pens
as I did rehashing algebra. Nearly every day after, we tried and tried again;
working one-on-one after the teacher had given her directions, trying our
hardest just to reinforce new material.
I had tried being more
lighthearted with him in our one-on-ones, and even took him to other classrooms
to get away from possible distractions. He responded better when the pressure
of his classmates wasn’t as high, and I think he even grew to enjoy class a bit
more. It became a point of familiarity for Kenny, or a checkpoint throughout
his day, and mine. When we’d see each other in an earlier class he would always
make sure to ask, "You gonna pull me out of math today?"
During those first few
weeks, there were definitely moments of hope; good marks on class work, getting
problems correct on homework, more participation in class and so on. He even
began beating me to the punch with a lot of the practice problems and getting
them done without my help. However, the progress often stalled and seemed
marginal. There were just as many instances where he would be marked for things
like “incorrect”, “incomplete”, “needs to show work”. Even after the third week
of learning “how to find the missing side length of triangles”, it was a
stretch to get him to identify which side is the hypotenuse. For those like me
who shamefully can't remember on their own, a hypotenuse is the side opposite
of the right angle.
As our triangle unit was
ending, there was a looming two-part test that drew nearer and nearer. I was
getting anxious: from my own bad math experiences to the realization that this
student wasn't doing well in class, I couldn't help but be a little fearful.
The day before the test, while working alone on a review sheet, he could barely
answer the first two hypotenuse questions on his own, and even when he did they
were incorrect.
I left our class thinking
I'd failed him. This happens often to me at school. One day I leave believing I
really made a break-through with a scholar, getting them to pick up their
character and stay on point with grades, and the next they give up the effort,
pick fights, talk back, and lose respect for everyone in the room, including
themselves. Kenny could certainly be that kid at times. I assumed the next time
we'd see each other it'd be with a fat “F” and a heavy chandelier holding over
both our heads for the rest of the year.
It wasn't until he
pulled me aside at the end of the next day to tell me how wrong I was:
“Mr. Tortelli, Ms.
Reigelmeyer graded my test in class and said I got an A.”
He’s lying, I thought. “Say what?”
“Yeah, she graded it and
said I better do just as good tomorrow on the next part.”
No way he passed… let
alone aced it?! He cheated! He must have wrote the answers on his hands...
something!
He reached to shake my
hand. Clean as a whistle.
Meanwhile his teacher,
hearing our conversation from her room, stepped out to congratulate the two of
us and, more importantly, verify that “He’s telling the truth!”
I can’t talk about the
death of Jesus as if I’ve ever witnessed or been part of something so tragic,
but I can talk about the loss of hope. The ever pounding questions that rush
through my head daily: “Am I getting through to this student?” “Am I a good
enough role model?” “Am I the right role model?” “Will I, or even this school,
ever be enough for these kids?” In a sense, there is that death: Inspiration, courage,
the aforementioned hope. They can all disappear at the first sight of failure.
It doesn’t take much for us to fall, but there are moments around you when you
realize you’re doing alright.
In
seeing Jesus on the cross, he carries his mission to its completion – despite
the hardships, failures, and fear he must have faced, he is faithful to the
very end. For me, the Turkey-gram
itself was great, but more than anything it was a reminder that our work does
go to some purpose. Kenny got an “A.” He thanked me, and I am so very grateful.
Now a freshman in the High School of Technology one floor above us, four inches
taller and about 30 pounds heavier, he continues to thank me at least once a
week when he runs up to me on the way to my car after school, smiling ear to
ear, and tackling me to the ground with a bear hug, shouting “Mr. Tortilla!”.
The story goes that
Jesus died so that others may have a better tomorrow. While we should strive to
never give up our hope, it’s reassuring, as I learned, that even if it does die
for a day, it can still dawn a better tomorrow.
This reflection based off of an original story
of mine, “gratitude in the grind”. You can read that post in it’s original entirety and more on my
blog: Danbook
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