For the past six weeks, I’ve been in school year recovery mode. After a year that felt lopsided with more stress than success, I’ve spent the first weeks of summer purposefully avoiding all things school.
This had been working pretty well—and giving me some much needed distance—until the Fourth of July parade.
Every year our town has a Fourth of July parade and this year’s parade fell on a day that was thankfully cooler than most. My family sat lined up in blue camping chairs on the sidewalk in front of a nail salon and a shoe store, as my children darted regularly into the street grabbing Tootsie Rolls and Dum Dums.
It’s been a few years since I’ve taught in the school district where we live, and while I used to regularly see my current and former students marching in the annual parade, it is now rare to see a former student I know.
But this year, I saw Olivia.*
Years ago, Olivia was one of my hardest working seventh grade students. She looked like a dancer with white blond hair and a radiant cheerfulness. Olivia was the one student I could always count on to make eye contact, listening intently when I taught. She ignored her classmates who giggled and chatted beside her during lessons— and acted like learning was a prize—one she would do whatever it took to get.
Olivia spent the majority of her day in a special education class. She struggled hard to read, but even harder to remember. Despite her intense and diligent efforts, many words and ideas just wouldn’t take hold and stay in her brain.
Olivia saw me before I saw her. She was walking in the parade with a small group behind a green banner. When I saw her, she was waving, excitedly.
“Mrs. Eulberg!” she yelled enthusiastically. Then, as if she needed to explain her presence in the parade she shouted, “I’m working!” with a huge smile on her face.
It was then I noticed the large man next to her walking with a slow heavy gait, his body leaning slightly to the right. It was clear he had special needs and needed assistance walking in the parade. Olivia was assisting him, guiding the large man—beaming with pride.
Olivia waved over her shoulder as her group continued down the street, and a million questions I wished I could ask flooded my mind.
I wished I could ask her how she’d chosen to work with people with disabilities. I wished I could ask what she remembered about my time as her teacher. I wished I could ask what inspired her—or tell her how she’d just inspired me.
I guess sometimes—seeing a former student reminds you that even though you didn’t know it—you just might have made an impact.
You may have guided a student through middle school days that were inevitably hard. You may have made their learning struggles feel a little more bearable. You may have played a small role in helping them want to help others—and feel the enormous gratification in that.
Some years it is hard to recognize the impact you make as a teacher. Sometimes you have to search for it and sometimes it shows up unexpectedly—on your summer break from all things school—at a Fourth of July parade.
*name changed for privacy
Beautiful story, Jill. Your writing made me literally see the scene in my head and I’m certain you’ve made more of an impact on lives than you can even imagine! Blessings to you in the important work you are doing every year. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you so much for your kind words!!!