I was at my desk around 8am, dressed more casually than usual, ready for a lighter day. At the time, I was an upper school science teacher and advisor in the midst of transitioning into learning support after well over a decade in the classroom. I had been at the school for about five or six years and was well into my career. I felt I had sure footing as I settled into my desk in the bullpen science office. I was excited to get some work done at a pleasant pace, as the juniors were downstairs taking the SAT in the gym. There were fewer classes that day, and my advisees were among those taking the standardized test.
All of us who work in schools know that the moment you become confident that some quiet time is coming your way, there is a knock on the door, a ringing phone, or something else requiring your attention. Deep down, we might not have it any other way. But, the next moment, when my phone rang and I saw on the caller ID that it was a parent of one of my advisees, my heart sank, and worry immediately crept in. This couldn’t be good. Was my student okay? Were they in the building, about to sit the SAT? What was up?
Fortunately, it was not a 5-alarm fire. My advisee, whom I will call Sam, had texted or called their mom as the students were heading into the gym. Sam’s calculator battery had died; they had not brought extras. It was October of junior year, nerves were high amid pressure (real or perceived), and stress palpably reverberated among the students and their families. The often spoken about junior year that had loomed large since the start of upper school, the significance of which often reached mythic proportions, was upon them. Every stake felt high, while confidence was shaky.
Should Sam have reached out to their parent at that moment? Probably not. In the best case, Sam would have approached a proctor and shared the issue. They also should have heeded email warnings about fresh batteries or spares. But, there they were, about to walk into the gym with their entire grade to take a standardized test run by the college office faculty—the exact people the students wanted to make the most positive impression on possible. How might I have felt? If I had had a cell phone when I was 16, what would I have done? Also, there I was, in the upper school science office, on the phone, listening to a frantic parent ask me if I had spare batteries.
Presumably, the students’ panic had transferred to the parent in their 20-second phone exchange. Next, the parent seemingly went into problem-solving mode instead of encouraging their junior in high school to simply tell someone in the gym. Also, the parent was likely feeling just as (if not more) amped up than their 16-year-old taking the SAT. Years of investment in their child’s learning, development, interests, and beyond were coming to fruition in the college search. Should it feel like that? Is getting into the “perfect college” why students, families, and K-12 educators do what we do? No, or at least not exactly. However, “it” is there, and while there are countless reasons not to cave to it, pretending the impact of the college ramp-up isn’t present never seems like the answer either. As an entire layer gets added to students’ and families’ lives related to college, sensitivity is key, perhaps especially at the beginning.
I told the parent I had batteries and that I would bring them down to the gym. However, if the test had started or if the college office faculty were to inform me that I was unable to come in for other reasons, there may be nothing I could do to help. But I promised I would try.
I walked down to the gym and the students were all inside, milling around. It was clear that the proctors had not yet begun the SAT’s standardized testing protocol. The students were slowly filing into their seats and the proctors were busy making sure everything was in its place. I felt terrible about interrupting. I approached the lead proctor and told them that Sam’s calculator battery died, that their mom called me, and I had a battery. I asked if it was okay to pass it along to Sam directly or through the proctors. Immediately, I knew that in this person’s eyes, I had crossed a line. I didn’t take their annoyed look personally. They were feeling pressure too, and I understood. They took that battery and, in a curt tone, said they would give it to Sam. I expressed thanks and then started to either hustle or slink away—perhaps some combination of the two.
Then, I heard my name as I was heading toward the stairs. The proctor in charge was following me and, albeit quietly, they let me have it with the age-old question, “What is Sam going to do when they get to college, call their Mom?!” I can’t recall exactly what I said in response, but in my mind, it was something to the effect of, “I understand, but I wish you had just said—No, Mary, I can’t take the battery and give it to Sam.” I felt like they were more mad at themselves for saying yes than at me for asking. Or, perhaps that is what I told myself. I did learn the message of “What will you do when you get to college?” was also communicated to Sam as they left the test that day. I was disappointed and wished that, if said at all, that it had only been said to me.
At that moment, I felt awful. I was far less senior than the person who had more or less scolded me. They were not my direct supervisor, but in some ways, they might as well have been. I felt like a little girl admonished by someone more powerful. I felt small. I also felt angry. But there was nothing to be done and nowhere for my feelings to go. It was over. But I have thought about this scenario countless times. First of all, anyone can have a rough moment, none of us are perfect, and I am no exception. None of us are perfect, and tensions can run high for everyone at times. I also had countless positive experiences with this same valued colleague over the eight years I spent at that school.
What stuck with me was the question: “What are they going to do when they get to college?” It’s not as though I had never heard this before. However, I had never stopped to consider it deeply. By that time, I was 15 years into teaching, and I had stayed in touch with several former students. So, I knew many answers to the question of what they would do in college. The truth was, they were okay, often great, or even amazing, when they got to college. They had professors, TAs, and RAs, friends, and they had themselves. They weren’t perfect either, but they were solid. When a need arose, they might still have called a parent sometimes, but things generally got worked out quite reasonably. When an issue didn’t resolve relatively quickly, the student took the hit and was perhaps sidelined for a moment. But they kept going, which happens in life at all stages. They did not end up totally paralyzed, unable to solve a problem, because an adult gave them a metaphorical or physical battery one time (a few times) in high school. These were moments that built confidence and ultimately fostered student independence.
Now, I am almost 25 years into my career. I had many wonderful experiences at this former school and I am incredibly grateful for the time I spent there. As I reflect on my former students, I feel deep sadness when I think about the ones who were not alright. There have been physical and mental health challenges (including substance abuse disorder and, tragically, overdoses). There have also been a few accidents that have taken lives, the majority of which have been motor vehicle related. Each instance is a heartbreaking tragedy, and there is also so much I will never know. I don’t know how many of the students I have been lucky enough to cross paths with are fulfilled by their careers, confident in themselves, financially stable, in healthy relationships, or even truly safe day to day. But, I do know that the educators who lend a student in need a hand, without a shaming lecture or a mantra leading to fear-based behavior changes, do not set up their students for failure at the next stage. In fact, they help develop student independence rooted in trust and self-efficacy.
When I was teaching in a pre-k through 8th-grade school, there was, of course, the middle to high school version of these “What are you going to do when…” conversations. While the developmental stage and conversations are different, the core truths hold.
I need to acknowledge a few essential points. Is it always “wrong” to prompt a student to think about what their responsibilities will be at the next stage, whether this involves college or not? No, of course not. Forward thinking, planning, building capacity to delay gratification, developing the ability to tolerate appropriate amounts of discomfort (getting that homework done while you want to go on YouTube), and taking responsibility are incredibly essential parts of our work with students and their families. Also, if a parent is in a pattern of either buffering their child from natural consequences or advocating for them instead of helping teach the student to advocate for themselves, that is, of course, a problem that needs to be addressed. When maladaptive patterns emerge, they should not be enabled or ignored. The “how” of doing so is a vast, situationally dependent conversation—but a critical one for all educators to continue to foster, especially when nurturing student independence.
Along these lines, although Sam was not in any such pattern, we did regroup and check in a few days later. Among other things, we discussed the steps they would take next time before a standardized test or as they plan for something beyond the scope of their typical day-to-day school experiences. However, we buttressed these points with a conversation that also expressed an understanding of how these moments happen to all of us, and it’s not about beating yourself up, but about noting what to do in the future, learning from it, and moving forward better. This kind of reflection is where student independence begins to grow—from supported problem-solving, not from shame.
I once heard myself say, while being interviewed by a student for their podcast, “I’ve never regretted giving a student a second chance.” On my way home that day, I wondered if I really meant that. Well, I did then, and I do now. Would I regret giving a student a 4th or 5th chance, probably (but for particular extenuating or mitigating circumstances that would be known to the school). Regardless, there is always a fine line between supporting and enabling, and/or creating dependence or learned helplessness, which I never want to overlook. One way I work toward avoiding crossing this line is by staying in appropriate conversation with colleagues about our shared students, which, fortunately, can also be supported by school structures. (How school structures can be increasingly supportive of teacher communication within time constraints is a different essay.)
In the end, Sam was in a pickle that day, and one could certainly argue that they made a mistake by not replacing their battery the night before or bringing an extra one, and by calling their mom. Although not seamlessly, Sam got what they needed for the SAT that day. Also, at a constructive time, a plan for addressing (or, better yet, avoiding) a similar situation in the future was discussed. If the same or a similar situation arose later on, that could be a different story. But who do we want to be: The educator whom the student feels comfortable being vulnerable with, or the one they try to hide a challenge from (perhaps by sneaking in a call home as they are feeling desperate) instead of coming straight to us?
I hope to be among the countless educators creating those, as often described, safe(r) spaces. Inadvertently teaching our students to be fearful of showing us their needs in those moments 1) drives them to take the steps we least want them to take—including calling a parent instead of problem-solving on their own—and 2) creates fear that actually minimizes opportunities for them to build the muscle of self-advocating. I know our students will have to approach people they are intimidated by in life, that not every space is going to feel comfortable, and that they will have to deal with that. However, it is not my role to create more of those difficulties. Life will take care of that, and then some! Instead, I hope I am helping my students build the skills that better enable and empower them to face those moments with independence and confidence. In doing so, I hope I am playing a small part in fostering student independence—the kind grounded in trust, compassion, and readiness for whatever comes next.
PS – Sam did great in college. Their mother sent me a picture from graduation (not because of “battery-gate,” but simply out of joy and pride). Sam was beaming.
