Maria's Story

I worked as a "tutor" for about six months the year before I began substitute teaching. A "tutor" in this case is someone who goes into a class being conducted by a regular or substitute teacher, and who helps students with their classwork. Another term for it might well be "teaching assistant."

In the one class where I worked, I weas one of two "tutors" who worked at the same time. There was a young Hispanic student named Maria. I think she was in the tenth grade. She was definitely not a senior. I do not know if she was in this country legally or illegally, though I would bet it was the latter.

I had worked in "special education," about which I shall have much more to say in future posts. In special education, the students are so severely disturbed that they can scarcely function. They have an enormous variety of psychological problems. And since each individual has his or her unique set of difficulties, one spends a great deal of time just sitting there, observing the students, trying to determine what you can and cannot do to help them.

I carried this habit of observation over into Maria's class.

As I observed during the first week or so, Maria spent almost all her time talking to two or three other Hispanic girls, usually in Spanish. The instructor, who was also Hispanic, would be explaining some about the course's subject, and there would Maria and her girl friends, chattering away disrespectfully on the side. Sometimes the instructor would pass out classwork -- multiple choice quizes which he would discuss after the students had had time to choose what they believed to be the correct answers -- and Maria, though taking one, would never even try to do it. She continued talking with friends, though in a low enough voice so as not to disturb the class seriously.

I tried to form some kind of relationship with Maria by getting into a few discussions with her. I learned that she lived with her parents, and counted on living with them and eventually with a husband, quite possibly still in the parents' home. I tried to explain to her the importance of math, or being able to calculate costs of items, of being able to budget. I asked her a series of questions and it quickly became clear that she had no idea how much it cost to rent an apartment, or even to buy a package of tortillas. In short, what I saw was a pattern of total irresponsibility, of expecting that she would be taken care of by someone for the rest of her life, and of simply not caring about the difficult realities of existence.

On one occasion there was to be held a march downtown on the subject of immigration policies. Maria was enthusiastic about attending this, even though it was on a school day. "We've got to go," she said. "It's very important. We've got to do this to be free." Indeed, on the day of the march, Maria was absent from school, marching somewhere for her "freedom" when she didn't realize that by refusing to do schoolwork she was giving it up at the same time.

At that point I was consciously developing a pattern of triage. Each class, it seemed to me, was divided into three parts. One group consisted of motivated students who were going to do their work, and if they had questions, they would ask for help. Another group lay in the middle. It was impossible to determine whether or not they would succeed, but so many of them could go one way or another that these students deserved most of the attention. Here was fertile ground. With a few pushes in the right direction, you could help a student accomplish things he or she might not otherwise accomplish. These students were worth devoting extra time and effort to. And then there was that bottom group, the students who didn't care and wouldn't work.

When I spoke with Maria's teacher about her, he held up his hands in frustration. "There's no hope for her," he said. She was failing the class and he saw no hope for her. Not being willing to write her off that easily, I asked Maria a day or two later whether or not she was concerned about failing the class. "No," she said. She said the work was too hard and she didn't care. I responded by saying that I could help her by explaining things, and that there was still time to pass. "Would you like me to help you ?" I asked. "No," she said. "I'm not going to try."

I made the determination then and there that she belonged in that bottom section of the triage. "It's up to you," I said. After that I continued to see her, both in the class and in the hallways. I always greeted her as though I were happy to see her. Once I even gave her a hug. But I never again tried to help her with her schoolwork because I knew the time could be better spent with other students.

The year after that I became a substutute teacher and had charge of classes on my own. I saw Maria's teacher frequently and once I asked about her. Halfway through the year I still had not seen her. "She got pregnant and got married," he told me. "They're living with her parents."

You win some and you lose some. And you cannot help them all.