Overview:
A new teacher in a rural California classroom reflects on how a quiet, overlooked student named Jose Guzman unexpectedly taught her the power of recognition and human connection.
I had only just begun my career as a middle school teacher in one of the outer suburbs of Los Angeles. “Outer” meant that the area still retained some of its rural features. Most of the orange groves and cornfields of the closer in San Fernando Valley had already been replaced by track homes and shopping malls. The goat farm where my brother and his friends had tried to “ditch” me when we were children growing up in Burbank had long since disappeared.
But here fields of crops remained undisturbed, and the hills became verdant and sported patchworks of vibrant wild flowers in years when spring rains were adequate. Leaving my classroom one day, I had a sudden craving for a chili dog, then realized that they were harvesting scallions in the field next to the school.
Its affordability and agricultural base made this area appealing to a transient population, many of whom worked on the farms. The situation created much frustration for teachers who attempted to retain some continuity in their curriculum. Students showed up in the middle of class, and all teaching was interrupted while names were recorded in attendance books and seats assigned.
One of my new students made a valiant attempt to avoid such an interruption. One day, after I left my classroom, the vice principal asked me about my new student, Jose Guzman*.
“Haven’t seen him,” I replied.
The vice principal frowned. “He was sent right over to you at 11:15. I’ll search him out and be sure he’s there tomorrow.”
The next day, the same pattern was repeated.
“Well, how did it go with Jose Guzman?”
“Never saw him.”
“But how can that be? I walked him right up to your door!”
The vice principal finally escorted him into the classroom so Guzman could not escape. That didn’t mean that he stopped trying in every way to make himself invisible. He’d slouch in and take his seat in the back row, where I was forced to relegate him in my already overcrowded classroom. Then he slumped down in his chair, never raised his hand, and turned in few assignments. I should have been more on top of his poor academic performance, checking to see if I could schedule a conference with a parent or at least pull in Guzman for a talk, but I was an inexperienced, overworked teacher in an tough classroom situation and somehow Guzman slipped between the cracks.
The story of his evasiveness did become an inside joke between me and my colleagues so that I began to refer to him as “The Elusive Guzman.” When the school year had almost ended and yearbooks were being sold and signed, I chuckled to myself that I had to do something to remember this clever evader.
“Hey Jose, could you come over here and sign my year book?”
Guzman looked startled. He stood up from his desk, strolled over, and signed his name. I don’t remember that he inscribed any special message, but his whole demeanor changed during that last week or two of the school year. He no longer slouched down in his seat; he lingered by my desk before leaving class and even seemed attentive during some of the lessons.
On the last day of school, my students bolted for the door after hearing the dismissal bell. I was left rummaging through some papers on my desk, but when I looked up, there was Guzman standing in front of me.
At first, he looked uncomfortable. “Have a nice summer,” he stammered. Then, before he turned around and walked out the door, I saw his face break into a smile for the first time.
I suddenly realized that when I had requested his signature as a kind of a joke, it was probably the first time a teacher had paid any real attention to Guzman, made him feel that he was recognized and counted. Perhaps Guzman didn’t learn much from me during the short period that he was my student, but I certainly learned a lesson from him.
This column is a series of short vignettes stories inspired by teaching. We publish short stories written by teachers each week. This week, a quiet student teaches us a lesson.
*Names have been changed.
Susie Quart was an educator at the secondary school level for many years in numerous locations across the country— California, Massachusetts, Maryland, Illinois, and Vermont—spanning urban, suburban, and rural communities. Each presented unique challenges, but one experience early in my career taught me something that I carried with me in all my subsequent experiences.
