The Lives of Others

As a teacher, I see my students but for a few each hours each day. Now after working with them for this long, I start to wonder. What are their lives like once they get home? Are they fed dinner every night? Do they have a quiet place to study? Are they taking care of other siblings? Are they getting enough sleep? Such things should not be in my thoughts as much. But, alas, they will fade away.

I notice that, during early morning tutoring, many students race in, grab a breakfast, and start devouring it. My mind starts racing. Did the child have dinner? When was the last time the child ate? Was it yesterday’s lunch? My day starts filling up with questions. Said students are also those who come in with clothes that are far from clean, that are torn, that are snug, and that are not uniform regulation. What does one say? The students have what they have, and have been wearing it all year long.

I do not feel a complex is setting in. But perhaps there are some anthropological leanings deep within. Many of my students have siblings who attend the school. The same things I see in my students, I recognize in their sisters and brothers. Then, I start imagining home life for my kids. There are questions I want to ask, but I strange such questions strange. Do you need anything? Is everything all right? My fear is that I will be accused of prying or be labbelled insensitive to the plight of my students. What is worse, it may not be not be my business what happens once they leave the schoolhouse.

Occasionally, I have a student who opens up and lets me know s/he had a bad night or didn’t have dinner. I want not to cross a line and venture into savior territory. But then I muse nowadays teachers are counselors, life coaches, tutors, reading specialists, etc. Because so many of the students live in a housing project right down the street from the school, I realize it would be easy to check up on them. I often say no to that idea. Still, a feeling washes over me or a mood passes through me letting me know that all is not right with too many of the students. They hold back, not wanting to say everything, as do I. It is a strange little game we have all become too comfortable playing.

I think too much maybe. I must be over thinking the situation. My students’ lives are not perfect. Nor do I expect them to be. I guess part of me, since I started working at the school, has become interested in the lives of others.