Dear E, (Student Letter #2)

To help me be more critical and mindful of the bonds I’m forging with individual students, I write anonymous letters to some of my current and former students. This is the 2nd post in the series.

Dear E,

I noticed early on what your passion was: art.

Boy-oh-boy, you were always drawing in class. While we were discussing geometric sequences, you were doodling another character. At first, I wanted to tap your desk immediately — and most times I did. I had to. You were struggling to grasp concepts and I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to fall too far behind.

But as the months passed, and the more frequently I observed you drawing, the more appreciative of you I became. After learning from another teacher of the pretty rad animated short film that you made, I realized that what I thought was doodling, was in fact so much more. It was — and still is — a definitive part of your identity.

Fascinated, I started picking your brain. I wondered how all this works for you. I tried to imitate your (famous) cat drawing. I thought it was pretty good. I even asked you to teach me how to draw.

Then, after winter break, you shared with me — and the entire class — that your New Year’s resolution was to improve at math. I was proud of that goal and how you made it public, but I’m prouder of the progress you’ve made in reaching it ever since. E, I see a change. I’m glad the notebook that I gave you is helping. You have deeper thoughts now, more to give. More to share. You’re more engaged now than you ever have — you were even giddy over an exponential modeling problem the other day. I’m impressed to see this side of you that I always knew was there.

It’s hard to admit that when I see you drawing in class nowadays, I don’t rush in to bring you back to math. I pause. You’re in your own world, doing what you do. Your appetite for a good drawing is hard to interrupt. I know, I know, there’s a place and time for that — and it’s not in math class. I guess I’m not a teacher’s teacher because there’s something about you being immersed in what you acutely love during class that doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should. I wait as long as possible before I tap your desk, bringing you back, stopping you from finishing a nose or eye or mouth.

When that happens, my bad. But can you show me the finished product after class?

Sincerely,

Mr. P

P.S. By the way, I’m still waiting for my first lesson.