Today I was a professional.
When my student's parents entered the conference room, I stood up, politely nodded, and introduced myself.
"Hello, I am Miss Taylor. I am a practicum student in your child's classroom," I introduced. "I will be sitting in on your conference."
We exchanged formalities. They complimented me on my young age and distinguished schooling. I told them I was excited to finally meet them. We spoke about the brisk weather and approaching holidays.
My collaborating teacher entered the room. Together, we sat and looked over grades before beginning the conference.
The daughter cried most of the time. Why do you misbehave in class? I don't misbehave that much. Why are you so upset right now? You don't believe what I'm telling you. Why won't you just be easier to handle?
The grandmother sat back in her chair, obviously defeated by life and all she had seen in her relatively short years. The father interrupted every few minutes. I know she's a handful, she's my daughter. We'll have this fixed in no time. You need to pay more attention.
The child argued and shouted. The grandmother tried to appeal to her. The father pointed out her flaws without realizing it.
The whole time, I sat there in my cushioned red chair. All along I thought about how much I understood this girl and wanted to pat her arm and smile at her in comfort. I wanted to tell the father to bite his tongue and listen to his daughter. I wanted to tell everyone to shut up and just talk one at a time, following a logical pace and observing what they were saying.
But I didn't. Instead, I remained in my chair listening and waiting. Because I know that all wrecks eventually lead to recover. All wounds heal. An hour into the conference, when my teacher had left me with the child and parents, she girl leaned forward, met my eyes with those watery pools of aqua, and whispered to me in the quietest of voices.
"My problem is I just can't focus."
I knew she had turned around. I knew she heard us. I knew she was going to recover. But I didn't say anything. I only smiled and nodded my understanding to her.
Because I am a professional.
When my student's parents entered the conference room, I stood up, politely nodded, and introduced myself.
"Hello, I am Miss Taylor. I am a practicum student in your child's classroom," I introduced. "I will be sitting in on your conference."
We exchanged formalities. They complimented me on my young age and distinguished schooling. I told them I was excited to finally meet them. We spoke about the brisk weather and approaching holidays.
My collaborating teacher entered the room. Together, we sat and looked over grades before beginning the conference.
The daughter cried most of the time. Why do you misbehave in class? I don't misbehave that much. Why are you so upset right now? You don't believe what I'm telling you. Why won't you just be easier to handle?
The grandmother sat back in her chair, obviously defeated by life and all she had seen in her relatively short years. The father interrupted every few minutes. I know she's a handful, she's my daughter. We'll have this fixed in no time. You need to pay more attention.
The child argued and shouted. The grandmother tried to appeal to her. The father pointed out her flaws without realizing it.
The whole time, I sat there in my cushioned red chair. All along I thought about how much I understood this girl and wanted to pat her arm and smile at her in comfort. I wanted to tell the father to bite his tongue and listen to his daughter. I wanted to tell everyone to shut up and just talk one at a time, following a logical pace and observing what they were saying.
But I didn't. Instead, I remained in my chair listening and waiting. Because I know that all wrecks eventually lead to recover. All wounds heal. An hour into the conference, when my teacher had left me with the child and parents, she girl leaned forward, met my eyes with those watery pools of aqua, and whispered to me in the quietest of voices.
"My problem is I just can't focus."
I knew she had turned around. I knew she heard us. I knew she was going to recover. But I didn't say anything. I only smiled and nodded my understanding to her.
Because I am a professional.
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