A Hard Day's Night

It's Conference Week

A note to the families of current and former (and future) students: I do, ultimately, truly appreciate parent/teacher conferences. I look forward to talking to you about your amazing children, the progress they’re making, the ways we can partner to help them grow. These evenings are mostly fulfilling and positive, because at the base of everything is the way we both love your kids.

That said: conference week is a slog.

The first conferences I ever attended were during Student Teaching. I was coming to the end of 8 weeks in 2nd grade. I began the year with Mrs. Hilber’s class, and was extremely attached to them. I was also 7 months pregnant with Emily, so adding an extra 3-4 hours to the school day was a challenge. I decided to break my no-caffeine rule for one night, and drank a Diet Dr. Pepper. This resulted in Emily doing the cha-cha and maybe some light tumbling all throughout the evening — not my best choice.

Besides the jumping bean in my tummy, my strongest memory of that night is the couple that cried when Mrs. Hilber told them she thought their son would benefit from an evaluation for special education services. Dad appeared stern — almost angry — and Mom started crying. It was fascinating to watch Mrs. Hilber (an outstanding teacher who I’m so happy to have had as a mentor) gently help them to understand that all kids develop at different times and in different ways, and there is no longer such a stigma attached to receiving special education services as there was when I was in school.

I didn’t have my second conference experience for another 7 years, for reasons I detailed here and here. I had come into a 5th grade classroom halfway through the school year, thanks to a teacher who leapt at the chance for retirement. I had only known my students for a month when conferences rolled around. Most parents were kind, though looking back at my inexperience and lack of knowledge around test scores and data, they must not have thought much of me! However, I did manage to bond with that class fairly quickly, and I think that probably showed.

Conferences at the charter school that employed me for a year and a half were a whole production. Students had the day off, and we were in our rooms from 8am to 7pm, waiting for families. The elementary teachers arranged a potluck in one of the rooms, and you could find any of us grazing in there all day long, anytime that teacher didn’t have a family in the classroom. The school was comprised mostly of Somali students, and there was always a donated tray of sambusa on the counter from one or more of the mothers.

For the most part, the parents were kind to me. They wanted to know if their children were respectful, and always wanted to know why they didn’t have more homework. One father questioned the B his son had earned, informing me that “he got all A’s when we had him in private school!” Another mother — whose daughter had me in tears during my first week, issuing a blood-curdling scream every time I turned my back — refused to come into my classroom at all, informing all the other teachers in the hallway that she “hated” me and would not be coming to talk to me. I was all right with it.

My last 11 years of conferences have been here at King (I say “here” because I’m currently writing this at a table in my room, waiting for my next family!) and I have learned so much. This community is tight; families feel a real ownership of the school, and the relationships built here are long-standing and rich. Small, rural schools can be a real gift, I discovered, as I welcome parents into my room whom I’ve known for a while, as I now have younger brothers and sisters of students I had in years gone by.

My first year, this closeness was intimidating! It seemed that all the other teachers in the hallway knew all the families on sight — who were cousins of whom, who was living with their auntie, all the ins and outs — and I knew NOTHING. I’ve begged Deanna — the guru of all Deer River relationships — to construct some kind of family tree/blueprint/road map for the families in the district, but she refuses. (Which is probably best since it would most likely violate HIPAA.)

That year, I had a parent tell me straight to my face that they really only cared about their child’s math grade, because reading is useless and, “It’s not like you use it after you’re out of school.” This sort of comment has, thankfully, been an anomaly — most parents are supportive and eager to hear how their students are progressing and succeeding. I have had group cry sessions in my room — a full, multi-generational family, including step-parents — all rejoicing in the work their student has done. I had a conference with a mom and my student’s big brother — the mom and I ended up talking about vitamins, and I quizzed the brother on what books he was currently reading.

Just this week — we do 3pm-7pm on Tuesday and Thursday — I have had a mom who is on her 3rd trip around with me, a very relieved couple who did not expect a glowing report of their son, and a delivery of a beautiful, handmade wreath from another child and his mother. Just now, my student came in and excitedly asked, “Loeffler! Should we tell my mom and dad about the poop water in the Middle Ages, Loeffler?”

Yes I’m exhausted. But would I give up a chance to tell a mom and dad about the Medieval chore of emptying the chamber pots into the street? Absolutely not.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie