Go to the Grad Party

Go. You won't know if you were needed until you get there. Even then, you may never know.

Like so much of teaching, we act in faith, throwing our hearts into efforts that may or may not net a return. We stay late to help a kid polish a scholarship application, we use our prep time to help another finish a science portfolio, we work behind the scenes to get kids fed, shod, and into drug rehab. There are no guarantees any of our efforts will matter in the grand scheme of things, but I believe in the waterfall method of loving my students: pour it out there. And that means showing up at their grad parties.

I didn't always go to all the parties. Instead I tried to sort out which kids my presence mattered to most. But I've learned my perceptions aren't necessarily accurate.

A few years ago I drove 11 miles to a reception for a student I did not know well. She had been reserved all year, missed class for a range of health and personal issues. I'd nudged her through her (late) research paper and plied her with good books. I passed her the lemon-drop jar when she looked especially tired. But I did not think we had a strong connection.

The look on her face and the strength of her hug at her grad party made me wonder if I'd misjudged my impact. The thank-you note she sent afterwards verified this. She told me she had almost dropped out during that last complicated semester, and she credited me with keeping her afloat. Our post-high-school friendship blossomed from there. The following Christmas she sent me a new lemon-drop jar, stenciled with "Ms. Berryhill's Room ~ Where troubles melt like lemon drops." She still brings me a bag of the candies when she stops by to visit.

That same year I attended another party for a student I'll call Missy. I knew I'd mattered to Missy. I had advocated for her, counseled her, tutored her. One snowy day I left school during my prep period to pick her up because she was stranded in a small town 10 miles away without transportation. She was so hungover I had to stop the car twice on the way back to school to let her throw up. I'd gone to the wall for this kid. I deserved the graduation invite. Heck, I deserved the whole party.

When I arrived, Missy gave me a perfunctory hug and pointed me toward the cake. Just then her older sister spotted me. "YOU'RE Ms. Berryhill!" she beamed. Here it comes, I thought. This is where the family circles 'round to sing my praises, to thank me for saving their daughter/sister and CPRing her through her senior year. I prepared a simpering "It was nothing..." response, but the sister's excitement had nothing to do with my teaching: "I hear you have a house for rent!" she exclaimed.

Later I processed the experience, eating humble pie. It took a team of Clydesdales to get Missy across that graduation stage. I was just one of work horses. I don't regret pouring energy into flailing students, and I want to think I don't do it for personal glory. But my reaction to "not mattering" at Missy's party reminded me to keep my intentions in check.

So which party should I have attended? I now attend them all. Some teachers differentiate between the invites that are mailed and the ones left on our desks as an apparent afterthought. But sometimes the kids who can't pay for postage need me there the most. I've stopped trying to guess and instead clear my calendar and give myself over to three weekends of an all-cake diet. This year I was invited to 47. I missed six because of family obligations (my own daughter was graduating from college), but I made it to 41, delivering to each graduate a small jar of lemon drops.