The window

Ms. Moore was a tall, thin woman who had too many frown lines upon her forehead for her young age of 32. She wasn't interested in forming meaningless relationships with her students, and that feeling was mutual. Her students did not like her or the rules she put in place to keep order, but they respected her teaching abilities. She was okay with the whisperings of cruel nicknames and hateful rumors so long as she felt as though every student could understand her curriculum. That, of course, was her job, and what people said behind her perfectly straight back was unimportant. She assigned seating to her students to prevent students from talking to one another and disrupting the class. This worked to some extent, but there are always students who will talk to anyone. One student, in particular, was that sort of kid. Joseph would spend his time cracking jokes with his friends or trying to impress girls instead of focusing on the task at hand, and it seemed that no matter where Ms. Moore moved him he would find another person to cheer up. Smiling was great. Ms. Moore didn't hate smiles. Contrary to her student's beliefs, she spent her time outside of school smiling as she sipped a glass of red wine and looked up at the stars. But smiling was not for school. She would constantly bicker with Joseph about his talking habits and was left feeling undermined. As a teacher, she shouldn't have to argue with a child. That was foolish and embarrassing. She saw this student as a challenge, another test in her career. She had had many tests in her day, and he was just another one. She sat for long hours grading papers and wondering how to get through to a student with no interest in schools. She questioned whether he was insecure in his intelligence, or simply just insubordinate. Her classroom was a puzzle, and he was the piece that you drop underneath the sofa. She would often put students like him by the window where the radiator lay, hoping that the urban landscape outside would distract them, or the heat would put them to sleep. As of yet, she had not moved him yet and had exhausted every other method in her toolbox to old the young mind into that of a bustling young scholar. Alas, she had no other choice to move young Joseph to a window seat. Today was a cold, cloudy December Monday. She expected students to be more restless with winter break approaching but as her students filed into her class for 6th-period algebra 1, they were solemn. She took notice of the energy in her classroom, but carefully chose to not address it as to not set anyone off. Students settled down quietly and class started as Ms. Moore began to call out names for attendance. One by one, students answered to their names, repeating here in a melancholy tone. As Ms. Moore read off Joseph's name, a student began to cry silent tears in the back of the classroom, thinking that nobody could see him. But Ms. Moore saw him. She saw the individuality of all of her students. She saw their mood swings, their highs and lows, and their deep emotions, and came to understand every one of them in the 45 minutes she spent with them every day. Even though she chose not to engage, she still knew them well. When she saw that student cry, she knew something was wrong. She composed herself, stood up from her desk, and asked " Where is Joseph?" No one said a word in response to her question, and she was met with sunken faces and silence. She decided that the subject was too touchy to talk about and instead decided to continue with her lesson plan. Her students were learning about piecewise functions, and she knew that it would be a hard concept for some of her students to grasp. She handed out the do now on pink slips of paper, choosing to do it herself instead of making a student do it. She placed a pink slip on every desk, including the empty seat where Joseph usually sat in the back. She set a timer for 5 minutes and entered grades into the grade book in the meantime, but when she looked up, no one was doing the work. They all seemed jaded and tired, and for the first time in her career, Ms. Moore didn't know what to do. She wasn't one to let personal problems interfere with the environment in her classroom, but it didn't seem like putting her students to work to do them any good. She reflected on her time as a student and what it was like to deal with personal issues as a child, and how she didn't receive and slack for her personal turmoil. Where was the sympathy for her? Where was the sympathy for anyone? Would it truly help these students to let them slack under the emotional pressure? Or should she push them further to build character? She tried to put herself in the shoes of her students and realized exactly what she needed to do. She stood up once again and told the class that they would be receiving a free period for their hard work. No one looked relieved. It was just as silent as it was before her gracious gift. She sat back down to work on her grade book, and her students began to whisper. She couldn't hear a word they were saying, but they seemed to be about her. She didn't care, of course, but she was intrigued. Every time she would glance up, they would fall silent. She noticed students looking back at the pink slip on the empty desk as well as a couple of people sobbing. She was truly puzzled with the phenomena being displayed in her classroom. She had only one idea of what could possibly have made her students like this, but she had to be sure. She opened up her faculty email, and read the troubling tale, and concluded that her students knew more than the administration did. She was not a subtle person, and she never had been, and now more than ever it was important to be blunt. A student of hers was in danger, and she wanted answers. She needed answers. She was peeved by her student's behavior but would have never wished this on him. She was distraught and suddenly empathized with her students. She knew what she needed to do. She composed herself, stood up, and asked once more "Where is Joseph?"