Jordan and Ellie

Ten years ago, I had a conference with the parent of a kid in my class who just sparkled. I had waited for that parent to arrive to see who possibly could have raised this child.

The sparkler’s name was Ellie.

And I loved being her teacher.

Ellie had thick blonde hair that fell perfectly on her shoulders. She was a super fluent reader, strong in math, and a star soccer player.

She was friends with everyone in our class and her penmanship made me love grading her papers. She spent time near my desk and would ask me how my day was going.

And she was the person I knew I could look at and say, “Go to the copy room, make three copies of this, and then grab a box of pencils from Ms. Linda in the office,” when I needed help but couldn’t leave the other 34 unattended.

Even her smile and her laugh were perfect. This little ten year old girl had it more together than I did at the time, it seemed.

But the thing about Ellie that made me take note was her ability to see the God in people.

Miss Zwirner

At that time, I was still Miss Zwirner. It took me an hour and a half in the morning to precisely apply blue cream eyeliner, eat my fruit and Greek yogurt, and perfectly style my asymmetrical haircut before I got dressed in my Express Editor pants and coordinating cardigan.

I only had dreams of being a mother.

At that point, my pants still had buttons and zippers, I still went to Chicago on weekends, and there was no sign of Mark Meyer on his stallion.

At that point, I still lay in bed alone every night, willing my eyes to close and praying the loneliness consuming me would soon dissipate. I’d wake up in the morning and spend my daylight hours being the teacher who tried to save everyone.

My class that year was lovely. They liked to play multiplication bingo and they studied for tests and they enjoyed when I taught them new vocabulary words.

Jordan

Jordan was also in my class that year.

She sparkled, too.

But in a different way from Ellie.

In a way that said to the world, “Your bullshit will not take this from me. You will not extinguish who I am. I will always stand back up.”

One day, while I was teaching math, I noticed that Jordan wasn’t in her seat.

“Where’s Jordan?” I questioned the rest of the class, my nostrils flaring. Jordan needed every bit of math instruction I could provide her. The day prior, for snack time, Jordan brought out a piece of chocolate cake in a styrofoam take out container, complete with two forks for she and her bestie. She was unconcerned with my math lessons and loved a good time.

“She’s in the bathroom giving Carl the Coyote a haircut,” someone nervously reported.

Carl the Coyote was a stuffed coyote that our class had received that month for being the best-behaved class in the upper el. Ellie definitely was more responsible for the acquisition of Carl than Jordan was.

Jordan

Jordan came to our school as a fourth grader. She had a twin in my friend Marcia’s class. I can still see Marcia leading Jordan’s twin and the rest of her class down the hall with her thick hair in a ponytail. She’d make that infamous face that teachers exchange as their lines pass each other in the hallway. That “Sweet Mother Mary, how many more seconds until dismissal?” face.

Jordan walked with a swagger, her leg turned in a bit, and she gave her fourth grade teacher a hell of a time.

Once her teacher discovered some of the details of Jordan’s past, we began to understand why she was giving people hells of times.

She had experienced things no nine year old—no human being—should ever experience.

I told my boss to put Jordan in my class for fifth grade. I knew I could connect with her. I knew I had to give Jordan some of the love that had been given to me throughout my life. And somehow, Ellie had plans to do the same thing.

What Privilege Looks Like Up Close

The school I teach at is unique because there is great disparity amongst the socioeconomic status of the students. Some live in massive estate-style homes on manmade lakes while others qualify for free and reduced lunch. But they all spend their days together.

And now, 18 years in to a career that has been part of me since the day I entered this world, I realize that it is unfair and unrealistic to expect that they will all function similarly within the confines of a classroom.

I now understand wholeheartedly and unapologetically that some of the students need me to teach them how to add decimals and others need me to simply be the person who shows up for them every day and sets boundaries.

Ellie and I came from families who had the resources to send us to preschool and go on vacation and buy us pretty backpacks and matching folders. Our families made it easier for us to have our work featured on the Blue Ribbon Board and to know that, when the teacher is teaching, it’s not time to go in the bathroom and give the class stuffed coyote a tail trim.

I watched Ellie interact with Jordan that year, how she always asked her if she wanted to be in her group, how she helped her keep her materials organized, how she stood near her in line and politely reminded her to stop talking when we were leaving for an assembly.

It was like Ellie somehow knew to teach Jordan how to play the game of school, of middle class norms, but with so much grace and compassion, because Jordan regularly named Ellie as one of her best friends.

I had never witnessed another child selflessly extend so much grace to a peer like that before. And I made a mental note that when I became a mother one day, I had to make sure that my own daughter would be the Ellie and take Jordan under her wing.

I didn’t care if my daughter was valedictorian.

I wanted her to be the girl in her damn class who helps Jordan organize her desk when she’s got fourteen missing assignments and can’t find a pencil to begin completing the first one.

Because when that happened—when one beautiful human being extended her hand to another beautiful human being—it was like God Himself was on the class roster, along with Carl Coyote, Jordan, and Ellie.

You Owe This World

At that conference, I asked Ellie’s mom to tell me how she raised a daughter who was only ten years old but who knew how to find the Jordan in the room.

Ellie’s mom looked at me and, without hesitation, said, “Sarah, I have tried to teach my children that the world owes them nothing. They owe the world.”

I Can’t Make Crafts or Coordinate Holiday Garb

God made me Jordan’s teacher for a reason. And he put Ellie in that class as well. He wanted me to see how much I have been given and how much He expects of me.

Maeve and Maverick Meyer do not have a mother who knows how to make crafts.

They do not have a mother who is diligent about coordinating family Halloween costumes or matching Christmas pajamas.

I haven’t printed any of the four zillion professional photos I’ve had taken of them over the last several years.

But they have a mother who has been forever changed by what she saw in Room 25 ten years ago.

And they will always be expected to go after the Jordans, to give this world what they have been given.