Teach and Die a Little

I am speaking for myself as a college teacher—a tiny part of me that dwells in a heart that is largely occupied by writing and book talking.

Although I teach only twice a week (total of six hours), this calling, for me, is rejuvenating grace, and I therefore take it seriously—so seriously I die a little when a student fails.

It feels like I have not given my best.   

This is a far cry from my experience as a student in UP, where some professors never cared whether I attended their class or not.  It never bothered them if the whole class failed.   

When I mope about a student in danger of failing, I hear these wise counsel from concerned co-teachers who are also my friends:
“Don't  waste your emotion on laggards.” “Teaching is a two-way process.  You've done yours, the student  should do his.” “You are not the student's mother; it's not your money he's wasting.”  “That does not make you less of a teacher!” 

Yet I couldn't give up on anyone.  Not on my watch. 

When this term ended, one student was below the passing mark. After I'd tried all permutations and considerations, he still didn't make the grade by a few points. 

Naturally, this distressed me; so I sought him out, talked to him one-on-one, and asked why his performance was below par. 

He blanched, hung his head, and said something about being sick—frequent headaches—which took away his concentration.

I required him to write an essay, to be submitted within 48 hours. Our subject being English, these were my instructions: “Pay attention to good syntax, organization, and grammar (which just about summed up our lessons for the term). This paper would determine whether your F has any chance of being changed to P.” 

The topic? Why I Should Pass the Subject. 

He. Will. Make. It. (This fearless forecast is a prayer.)