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Hope in a Classroom

January 27, 2025

 

Greetings from a glimpse beyond the horizon,


It would not surprise me if you told me that from time to time you wonder about where our world is headed.  It’s a common worry, as old as humanity, but maybe some days are harder than others to see beyond the shadows into whatever light there may be waiting. 

 

I have samples from nearly every day that give me hope, but I’d like to share one that has glowed inside me without dimming, for a couple weeks now.

 

The last time I was in a sixth-grade class might have been when I was in sixth grade.  I won’t do the math for you, but for context, we hadn’t landed on the moon yet, and the latest phone technology was a twelve-foot cord that allowed housewives to talk while cooking dinner.

 

What led me to this sixth-grade class, twelve hundred miles from where I sit, was a remarkably serendipitous connection followed by simply making the most interesting choice. And so I found myself stepping out of an Uber at a middle school in Kissimmee.

           

The school was hardened against the realities of the world.  Locks and fences and security grates and cameras. I was greeted by friendly people behind thick glass, who traded my ID for a yellow sticker that tells everyone I am a visitor. 

 

Everyone knew I was a visitor.  Aside from my age and skin color, I also had the look of an explorer; curious, out of place, slightly lost.  I was guided by my host through the open spaces between the buildings, where in other climates there would be hallways. 

 

All of that was forgotten when I reached the classroom.  It was like every other classroom, I imagine, decorated by a dedicated educator, with reminders and quotes and directions with rhymes and alliterations.  Even though it was all new to me, I could feel the purpose, the sense of it all, tucked amidst the whirl of words and color and icons.

Marilyn Lay, sharing hope.
Marilyn Lay, sharing hope.

 

Mrs. Lay, who I can call Marilyn, told me that my visit was a very special event for the students, to meet a writer and have the chance to ask questions, and feel what all the practice and homework and reading might lead to one day.  It was a lovely welcoming thing to say, but I soon found that the real substance in this room was so powerful it humbled me to be part of it.

 

The students filed in, curious and tentative when they saw me, but quickly took their seats, remarkably quiet for the age, a product of the friendly but firm direction of their teachers.  The energy changed, the room became something else now, no longer an abstract stage, not ideas about education, but the space where it took place.  The threshold of hope for our world.

 

What would have impressed you was how polite and respectful the kids were.  There were expectations in this class, set by Mrs. Lay and Mrs. Alfaro, not only for the academics, but for them as young human beings. They have created a culture in this place that reflects their own life perspective, nested against this fierce devotion to these young people’s education.

 

The afternoon wheeled past, the classroom emptied and filled, dozens of new young faces, sifting in and finding a seat and looking at me out of the corner of their eye until we knew each other.  I shared what I thought would matter, opened with words to simply lay the foundation for conversation, and then we had questions and that was where I got to see how they thought, how interested they were.

 

What is your favorite quote? Who is your favorite author?  What was the name of that poem?  Is it hard to be a writer?  What book do you like the best?  Where do you get ideas?  Why did you want to write?  I could see more questions in their eyes, wondering, maybe deciding, maybe just being silly.  I could also see the possibilities. They are smart humans, just discovering what to do with the gifts they have, and the potential was thrilling.

 

The energy in the room was delightful.  The kids wanted to be there, wanted to know.  Yes, they were still twelve-year-olds, still squirmed and nudged each other and whispered between moments, and magically there was Mrs. Alfaro touching them lightly and switching them back to students, giving them that little lens of focus so they could learn.

 

What gave me hope was the light in these young people, and the committed dedication of these two teachers.  I know I saw just a glimpse, and what happens there is much more complicated and messy and sometimes heartbreaking.  But it was there, this light, this thing in those kids that said they were bringing a new life to life.

 

Outside things are burning, and people are angry, and some are lost, and some are desperate, and others are hurt.  And we don’t always know, we almost never know, what will happen next, and it’s easy to wonder if it’s worth the bother to hope for better.  And I am here to tell you it is.  I saw it.

 

The hope is in two teachers who pour themselves into their students’ lives, not because of money or fame or followers, but because they see what matters, and they are teaching because it is a calling, not a retirement plan.  They are planting trees in whose shade they will never sit.  They are growing hope in those kids, and we will see it in them in the decades to come.

 

It is working.  They are teaching them the mechanics of learning, but they are also encouraging them to be more, to find their best selves.  They are giving them hope in their homework. 

 

When I left the little school I was exhausted and exhilarated.  It took me a few hours to digest everything, maybe longer really, but what was crystal clear was this: There’s hope.  Not without challenge, not without heartache, not without disappointment, but hope, nonetheless.  It is being built one student at a time, by teachers like these two heroes, in classrooms all over the world.  If you need to know, need to feel it, go sit where they are and pay attention.

 

The hope, the healing and solving and creating and caring and working, is in all of us.  But if you want to see it budding, to see where it is being nurtured and grown, follow a teacher into her classroom and see the light passed from one generation to the next.  The wonderful thing is that it rubs off on you, and you end up with a little of the light to carry home.

 

 

 

Hope this finds you lit,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025 David Smith

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