Dear E, (Student Letter #2)

To help me be more critical and mindful of the bonds I’m forging with individual students, I’ve decided to write 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.

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