A Student Again

"I can't do it, Mrs. Choi! But I really, really want to."

My second-grade student, Kiki* was pleading with her eyes. She'd been watching all her classmates proudly pick up bess beetles, even letting them crawl up the front of their shirts. Now, she was dying to do the same. But this was the same girl who, only a few days ago, had dramatically shuddered at the sight of one and whispered to a classmate, "The only good insect is a dead one."

I couldn't blame Kiki. My own family is rife with entomophobia, so much that one of my nephew's first words were "Bug! Bug!" It was my little guy's way of trying to save my sister from releasing another terrified, ear-ringing peal when she was caught unawares by another basement-dwelling centipede. My classroom walls have absorbed many, many similar screams from insect-hating children.

And if I were being really transparent, I would have to admit that my husband is the bug-catcher in our house. Because I run and shriek too. Shamelessly.

But as an science educator, I've held fast to Marie Curie's oft quoted words, that nothing in life is to be feared; it is only to be understood. And when it comes to insects, nothing has made me prouder than watching bug-averse students draw closer and closer to a beetle with every passing lesson, holding their breath, and finally tapping it furtively on the behind with a finger. When they aren't immediately zapped, stung, or fatally poisoned, their small chests puff with new courage and they'll usually come running with euphoric shouts. "I did it, Mrs. Choi! I finally did it!"

If there are any teachers reading this, perhaps you'll empathize when I say it's always been crazy hard for me to capture that in a report card grade.

I wish all students could have that moment. But realistically speaking, not everyone can overcome a lifelong fear with a few lessons and even a sprinkle of pressure from braver peers. But I was secretly holding out for Kiki. She'd step away any time she saw an insect, but neither could she tear her eyes away from them. Especially when another, then another friend proudly let a docile six-legged creature onto their arms. And now, on our last Insect Handling Day, Kiki was desperate. She knew we'd be moving onto a new unit soon and she'd miss her chance to be brave. So she came to me in desperation.

"Mrs. Choi, I can't do it!" Deep sigh. "But I really want to."

I assured her I was there for moral support if she needed me. Then I held my breath as she curled a hesitant finger towards a darkling beetle. She got closer...closer...and then -

"Eek! I can't!" The air in my lungs quietly released and Kiki was downcast. "Maybe I'm just not good at bugs."

---

I've been thinking about Kiki a lot lately. About all of my students, actually. It's hard not to, when I see all the back-to-school displays going up in stores, and I remember that I won't be there to welcome students back to a science lab this year. After a particularly traumatizing year of teaching, my husband gave me his blessing to take a sabbatical this year.

But I've never been one to sit easily. I blame it on my Umma, who would only stop cleaning and sit down once one of her daughters physically wrangled her into a chair. And even then, Umma would set her laser beam eyes on the floor, daring dust bunnies to cross her path. As for me, my restlessness mainly resides in the mind. In any given moment, I'm juggling fourteen 'what ifs', two shopping lists, a weekly menu, and six curiosities. It's one of the reasons why writing has always felt like such sweet relief. Jotting down even just one of those trains of thought would release my brain from one of its already-stuffed filing cabinets. As such, this blog, Page and Spoon, has certainly been a joy for me. But surely I couldn't spend an entire year just writing...could I?

And then a few weeks ago, Kiki crossed my mind. I thought about the way she'd cowered before a beetle and staked her flag in the Land of 'Non-Bug People'. It haunted me because she sounded just like me. Whenever I talk about math, I'm just as staunch. "Calculators are my best friend," I'll crow to anyone who listens, as though it were something to be proud of. "I can't do simple arithmetic and if I don't have a calculator handy, I'll count on my fingers and toes."

It's true. I'm not sure how I fell through the grade school cracks, but somewhere around third grade, my eyes would cross every time I saw numbers on a page. If you don't believe me yet, maybe you will when I tell you this. Only recently, James and I were on a road trip and we were marveling at how high gas prices have gotten (news flash, in case you didn't know). We passed by a place that advertised $4.08 a gallon and both of us gawped. "$4.08?! That's nuts!" James said, at the same time I shrieked, "That's SO cheap!"

My husband then glanced over at me, brows furrowed. "Babe, that's at least fifty cents more expensive than anywhere else in our neighborhood." Then I realized my mistake. I'd only been looking at the 8 cents without paying any attention to the dollar amount.

Yep. I make careless errors like that all. the. time.

I've spent my whole life staking the same claim as Kiki. "I'm not a math person," I'll wave my hand dismissively whenever a check needs to be sorted, or tips calculated. But I've been newly bestirred by what I told my second grader when she decided she wasn't a bug person.

"It's not that you're not a bug person," I'd said. "You're just not a bug person yet."

Yet. It's a short, three-letter word, but it makes all the difference. Kiki never did chance a hands-on moment that day with one of our insects. But lo and behold, guess who timidly called me from my doorway three mornings later and asked, "Mrs. Choi? Do you still have the beetles?"

As I feel my heart re-burst with pride at the memory of my young scientist overcoming her seemingly insurmountable wall of terror, I'm beginning to realize what a hypocrite I've been. How could I help students harness the Power of Yet when I was still letting myself claim my failures as permanent facets of my identity?

So I've decided to become a student again. I've drafted a schedule for myself, filling slots with all the Never Learned, Want to Learn, and Hated but Will Try Again subjects. Of course, math is right up there at the top of the list, along with French and relearning guitar properly. Ironically, science used to be those subjects, and it took seventeen years of teaching it and relearning it with children that I've come to find that I actually adore science.

I may not be there to greet my students in a few weeks, but it's comforting to know that I'm right there with them, in a way. I'm dusting off the old student hat and plopping it proudly atop my head, with my own fresh number 2 pencils in hand.

If ever I return to the classroom again, and one of my students despairs at how terrible they are at something, I hope I can not only teach them about the powerful yet, but also tell the true story of how Mrs. Choi used it to finally suss out where to truly refuel her car for cheap.