Every so often, I get the opportunity to be a counselor to my students, a role I relish beyond that of teacher. In a school of 2600 students, it is inevitable that some students do not land where they should without additional direction or support. I remember Christine, a level 10 state champion, whose counselor never mentioned the NCAA registration because he did not know she was a gymnast. Then Christine’s gymnastics coach never mentioned the NCAA either because he assumed the counselor at the high school would. Being Christine’s biology teacher and mother to a fellow gymnast, I assumed either coach or counselor directed the NCAA registration, until I asked her how the scouting was going.
“Terrible,” Christine replied, “I made videos of my routines, and no one has contacted me, but I have the grades and SAT scores to qualify at the Division I schools.”
“You know that NCAA coaches cannot approach you until that recruitment time of year and you registered, right?”
“Huh?” I still recall the blank expression on her face as I discussed this with her.
“Oh, you are not registered with NCAA. Forget biology for today,” (which I would never say but did on this day) and sent Christine to the library with instructions on NCAA registration. Two weeks later, Christine had numerous recruitment letters and within one month, scholarship offers at Division I schools. She is now in her third year of competing in college.
Christine’s story does not happen often, thankfully, as we succeed with more students than not. This year, however, I scored another opportunity to be a counselor. R., in my period six class, is a brilliant young man with spectacular talent on a stage. A stellar grade point average (3.8), a budding playwright, and winner of Thespian awards at the state level, yet R., just as with Christine, somehow did not get the message that college is an option. R. did not get this message because he is different—not a team sport player or NHS member or CSF member, but a Thespian—creative but often not college material.
This afternoon, I directed R. to explore CSU Mentor, choosing from different options—location in California, school size, subject major—to R.’s overwhelming delight he is a perfect match for San Francisco State. Smiling as though he won the Super Lotto, R. stated repeatedly in a theatrical voice over (again repeatedly), “I am in the top 1% of all applicants.” He could not believe the online calculations, as though if he told me enough, he might eventually believe himself. R. is now applying to SFSU, even U.C.L.A. is an option. Shooting for the moon and the stars, it is a good thing R. finished his personal statement. Tomorrow night is the opening of the play he wrote about Sherlock Holmes and performed by the repertory theatre. As R. left my class today, he turned to me and promised, “You will get a signed copy of the script.” I will be there. I will be ecstatic for him next spring when acceptance letters arrive. I know that R. is on his way to outer space and to where the stars shine. He belongs there.
Some people collect yachts or mansions or fancy cars or famous artwork or signed sculptures. I collect student work. Some day my work will be priceless.
Oh, yeah. It already is.
Love is Complicated 