Several years ago, I was pumping gas and I heard a noise over the usual gas station noise. Finally, I realized it was a voice.

“Mr. T.! Mr. T.!”

I looked across the parking lot and recognized a student I had many years ago. This was no ordinary student. This student is the kind of student who was a daily challenge.  

This kiddo rarely had any homework completed, and furthermore couldn’t get work accomplished at school. This person got into scrapes at school and was often the main suspect in assorted elementary school crimes.

To say this kid was challenging in school would be an understatement.

Still, as most teachers will tell you, there was a high degree of mutual caring that went on between the two of us. I knew this kid knew I gave a hoot, and I knew there was something in this kid that made him want to do a better job.

There were no academic deficiencies or diagnosed issues that warranted any support from other teachers. Most school officials were aware of the behavior of this kid, but at that time, we didn’t treat this kid any differently than the other kids. There were no meetings to see how we could address his issues.  

So I did what I could. I tried rewards. I tried the soft and the hard approach. I called parents. I took privileges away and I gave him classroom jobs or responsibilities that attempted to keep him out of trouble.

Some things worked, but usually only for a short time.

Home life may not have been the best area for support. Along with advice from the nurse, I had to gently talk to this guy about bathing and how kids may not want to be reading partners with someone who didn’t take a bath. There were life skills and character development topics I found myself discussing with this kid on a regular basis.  

Since I knew that my own kids often slid under the radar and were known to wear the same socks or underwear a few days in a row, I didn’t judge too harshly.

When the year ended, I wished him well but I’m ashamed to admit I was glad to see him go on his way. I cared about that little kid, but boy howdy was I worn out.

On that day at the gas station, there he stood, eagerly waving at me and looking happy as a clam to see me. I walked over to him and he grabbed my hand and shook it with gusto.  

“How are you, Mr. T.?”  

He really wanted to know.  After all those years of my daily nagging and me making him tow the line, he was happy to see me.

I was happy to see him, too.

“I’m great, I said. I’m so glad to see you! What are you up to now?”

His face beamed as he stood and told me about his career, his little family, and how he had gone to a  different school a few years after leaving my classroom.

“I was in a work program and I made really good grades. I played sports and lifted weights.  I’m hoping to own my own business one of these days.”  

He spat out details of life as fast as he could, looking for approval.  

I knew he was so proud, and after I asked a few more questions, I told him that I was proud of him, too.  

“I know I was a handful and we drove you crazy that year. You were my favorite teacher. I had so much fun in your class and you really helped me.”

I’m not bragging by repeating his words. I’m letting you know I felt like a hypocrite hearing him say that. I mean, this kid went around and around with me from August to May that year. I felt somewhat ashamed.

Also, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I really couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Surely this kid must have some unhappy memories of school.

I stood there and thought about how that kid had made me question my career choice at times. I thought about the many times I’d lost my patience.  

“Well, you certainly made things interesting, but I always knew how creative you were and how hard you tried. I knew what you were capable of.”

I really meant it, and was grateful those words came to me.

He said he was a reader of this column (which made me laugh out loud), and so I told him I might write a column about him, as our meeting had inspired me.  I wouldn’t use his name, and I’d change the story around a little to protect the innocent. I also told him there would be excruciatingly-curious people who would want to know who I was writing about, and I wouldn’t divulge my sources to those people either.

“That would be cool.  Write about bad kids you have had in class,” he said with a chuckle.

Oh no, I assured him.  The column would be about kids growing up and touching base with their old teachers.  

“And I really never believed that there are such things as ‘bad kids.’”

“Maybe you will run into some of the others,” he chuckled, proceeding to name the names of some other challenging kids who were in the class that year.

Sheesh. I’d forgotten what a taxing year that had been.

We had stood there long enough for me to have taken up too much space behind that gas pump, and so I shook his hand and told him how great it was to catch up.

“I’ll look for that column, Mr. T. Be sure to tell them that I turned out OK,” he yelled as I jumped in my car.  

I waved as I drove away.  And I’m not ashamed to admit I cried like a baby.

 Even if we played a very small part in their lives, we feel somewhat responsible if we did anything wrong or felt inept in the judgments we made. We do our best, as parents, as teachers, as adults. Often, we wonder if this kid is actually going to make it in life, as nothing we do to help seems to work.

But folks, he turned out OK.