Music to My Ears

Music to my Ears A few weeks ago, when I picked up my 3-year-old daughter Susana from the babysitter, she did not run up to give me a hug and kiss and declare how much she missed me; instead, she ran the other direction when she saw me coming, then went to hide under a small table where she knew I couldn’t reach her. When I did finally grab her a few minutes later, she was kicking, screaming, hitting, and anything else to show how unhappy she was about leaving her friends and their many exciting toys. It didn’t stop there; once we got in the car, she continued to scream so loudly that even the radio couldn’t tune her out, and even yelled at me to stop the car a few times. By the time we got home, ten minutes later that felt more like thirty minutes, I was crying and couldn’t even look at her without becoming more upset. Blame it on my hormones, blame it on my students, or blame it on the fact that I am a woman and allow my emotions to overrun me sometimes, but whatever the case, I reached a point when I simply did not know what else to do. I had tried every kind of discipline I’d read about and even a few of my own, yet none of them could take away the screaming in my ears—or worse, the pain inside my heart. The next day, I took my third and fourth grade students to the computer lab for a research project. Big mistake. Half of the computers didn’t work, three-fourths of my students didn’t know how to log on to the internet by themselves, and all of them needed me to help them with something in just that moment. Once again I felt the excruciating ringing in my ears (this time in the form of “Mrs. Jimenez! I need help! Mrs. Jimenez! What do I do?”) and the increasing feeling that if the noise didn’t stop soon, I might have to implode. But teaching, like parenting, means loving your students even when they are yelling in your ears. Somehow I finally managed to get around to all of my needy students, help them log on, and get them started on their assignment—all without imploding. In return, they were able to work independently (well, almost), doing something that they loved. For once none of them asked to go to the bathroom, and by the time class ended they couldn’t believe it was time to go already. When we did leave, several of them asked me when we were going to come back and do it again. In order to make music, you have to make noise. You also have to practice, practice, practice, relying on others to help you learn. At the beginning of the class my students made a lot of noise, distracting me, distracting others, but it was necessary for the beautiful melodies they created at the end of the class in the form of their finished research projects. If I had given in to the noise and taken them back to the classroom to do “boring work” like I had threatened, I would have never heard the final sounds. More importantly, my students would have never learned the valuable lesson of sticking with it when something is new, different, or seemingly difficult. Susana’s music that started as screams ended as joyful laughs. A few minutes after we got home, I was sitting on the couch, tired of the crying and screaming and anger. Susana finally noticed how upset I was and came to sit with me. She started tugging at my eyelashes, making me laugh. Before I knew it we were both laughing hysterically, and the meltdown from the previous twenty minutes was soon forgotten. As a mother, I must be firm and discipline my child even when she is doing everything in her power to make me give in. I must also show her love and attention, rejoice when she rejoices, cry when she cries. I must show her through my example that I don’t let temporary moments of insanity change my resolve. As a teacher, I must also be there for my students when they are acting unmotivated, uncooperative, or unreasonable. I must be patient with them when they feel like giving up and teach them how to endure difficult situations. If I do, the end product will always be music to my ears.