We usually have student-led conferences once in the fall, usually in early November, and once in the spring, usually in late March. It's a few days of crazy: two late nights, two long days, and one early morning. Families filling the room, Leadership students parting the crowds with their carts of snacks and water bottles, the air in the library or the cafeteria too hot, the noise too much.
It's exhausting, especially for an introvert. After our conferences I don't want to talk to anyone for awhile.
However, I also kind of love them. I honestly don't dread them. I even look forward to them. Because when we teach well over a hundred students, we don't often get the chance to steal a few minutes with each one of them, one-on-one, to say: "Let me tell you what I love about you." And to say that to their parents. And when their parents are expecting the opposite, that matters so much.
I was skeptical about moving conferences to a remote setting, where we only met with our advisory classes, because parents want to talk to their kids' teachers. But we're surviving a pandemic and we're all doing the best we can do, so Zoom conferences it is. And I have to say, there are some things I don't hate about this.
First of all, I'm lucky enough to have almost all of my advisory students in my English classes, and the ones I don't teach fit in so beautifully with the dynamic of our group that I enjoy my time with them, too. Second of all, I think I've actually met with more parents. Often, during those frenetic after-school and evening hours, students will come to conferences alone because their parents are working, or they're juggling schedules with more than one child, or they're tired. This year, parents can join a Zoom from work. Or parents in different households -- when that works for them -- can join a meeting together without having to share a physical space. Or they can schedule back-to-back conferences for their children at different schools without adding in driving time and wondering how they'll manage to get everyone fed at a reasonable hour.
I think about accessibility a lot these days. We're doing our best; we can always do better. We've learned a lot this year, and I hope we don't lose that in a rush to return to "normal." And I don't know what "normal" means anymore.
Here's what I do hate, though:
When a student logs on for a solo conference and keeps their camera off when they'd normally turn it on. They know me; I taught them last year, before the Pandemic. We've had our moments: good ones, terrible ones, plenty in between. I've been pissed at this kid, I've loved this kid. Both, at the same time. I've seen this kid grow. I've seen this kid slack, I've seen this kid work hard. I've lost sleep over them, and I've been mad about that.
I've heard this kid's voice in so many contexts over the past two years: Snarky. Sarcastic. Assy. Apologetic. Sorry. Sincere. Overwhelmed. Determined. Playful.
On my end, I've threatened, cajoled, reasoned, laughed, growled, sighed.
This is teaching. This is love, at the end of the day. Exasperated, worried, amused, frustrated, angry, concerned, hopeful love.
When this student logs in for their solo conference, camera off, the silence stretching a bit too long, I ask: Are you okay?
And I hear it in their response, after the silence: "Ehh. I'm okay." I know their voice, and I know they are not okay.
And there is just fuck-all I can do about it, really. I can say, "Hm. Okay. I remain unconvinced, and I'm worried about you." And then I hear them crying.
And this is where I feel just fucking helpless. Because when kids cry in my classroom, I can offer them Kleenex. If they want it, I can offer a hand on their shoulder, or a hug. I can read their face, their body language, and know what to say, or know what to try. But when a kiddo is crying on the other side of a screen and I know it's partly because they already trust me, and when it's clear they are trying very hard to hide the fact that this is what is happening, I want to cry right back, even though I still believe that our kids don't need the added burden of their teachers' tears. (This rule does not apply when seniors leave my class for the last time, but that should go without saying.)
Do not tell me our kids need to be back in school for their mental health. If you are not a teacher, you need to stay in your lane, because teachers know this. We know this. We also know that sitting in English class, or showing up for a standardized test (let's be honest about the push to get our kids back to school) doesn't address their mental health needs. Maybe they do need to sit in a classroom with their English teacher, or their math teacher, or their music teacher. They do need other humans. So do their teachers. But that isn't enough to address "mental health," and it's insane to pretend otherwise. I will be there to listen on the other side of a screen; in a classroom, I will be there with a box of Kleenex and open arms. (Except...we're in a Pandemic, yes we are, still, and we're not supposed to get too close.)
I will think about this student all weekend. I will follow-up on Monday by sending a message in chat, by popping into a breakout room, by saying, "Can you please come to office hours today?" Maybe they will. But nothing about this is normal, and in a normal year, this wouldn't be enough anyway.
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