Shift Work

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

A couple of years ago, the wife of Son #6 asked my three year-old granddaughter what she wanted to be when she grew up.  “You could be a doctor like your aunt or uncle, or a teacher like you grandma, or a software designer like your dad. Do any of those sound fun?” Suggested her mom.

“No,” said the three-year-old with absolute certainty. “I want to be a flag lady.”

“What’s a flag lady?”

“You know. The lady with the pretty flag who helps children cross the street on their way to school.”

 A Crossing Guard! Excellent! Her parents were all in. It was an essential societal job for keeping the future  generation safe so they could pursue their public education. And there was the added bonus that her parents would save a fortune in college tuition!

I’ve long been fascinated with the millions of ways kids work to support their future. As a high school teacher, I learned to never assume that my student’s lives were any less complicated than my own. Many of my students were already working at least part-time—some full-time in addition to their eight hours of school five days a week. And there were always a few whose income literally kept food on the table at home.

I once had a student who taught Zumba aerobics during her lunch hour. She’d rush from her morning classes to the local rec center where she changed into a metallic gold leotard and tights. In order to make it to my afternoon concurrent enrollment English class, she came in straight from her lunchtime session. There wasn’t a single day when she walked through that door that every boy in the class didn’t loose all ability to concentrate. It was the one and only time I had to invoke the school dress code against a student’s employment uniform.

Then there was the senior who was absent now and again because he was a certified judge for National Carrier Pigeon competitions–which turned out to be much more complex than it sounds, involving detailed records of distance and time, down even to split seconds. Who knew there were carrier pigeon competitions? His job was so unique it helped earn him not only a healthy salary, but also a prestigious scholarship down the road!

 One year a junior showed up to my honors English class three weeks late into the first quarter and left three weeks early before fourth quarter was over. He, his siblings, and his parents were the family musical group who lit up the night during the summer season for many years around campfires at Ruby’s Inn on the edge of Bryce Canyon. His job singing harmony and playing honky tonk piano earned him a large enough bank account to pay for all four years of college. (Plus–he earned an “A” in my class every quarter on top of all that.)

Because my job including helping kids learn to write for college classes, they often talked about their jobs as part of an assignment. I read an essay by a very pretty, but quiet young woman who wrote about the hours she spent working outside of school. Her mother was suffering from the advanced stages of multiple sclerosis. This student carried a 4.0 GPA as a senior, but she had never participated in a single dance or sport or extra-curricular activity. Every day at four o’clock, her shift began. She  took over her mother’s full time care until midnight when her dad came home from his graveyard job. Between them, they tenderly eased the burden of pain and debilitation for the woman they both loved. I’m pretty sure this student didn’t earn a single penny during her high school career—unless, of course, you consider the reward waiting for her as she passes through the Gates of  Heaven and gets to see her mom again.

But the student whose job I remember best was in my junior English class the first year or two I taught high school. He came into my first period class every other day wearing jeans, a brightly patterned shirt with pearl snaps, a western hat, and the impeccable manners of all my “cowboy” students. One Monday morning, he barely managed to slip through the door just after the tardy bell. He doffed his hat, grinned at me, and took his favorite seat in back. When the bell rang signaling the end of the period, he came up to apologize for being late.

“I just got off the plane,” he told me. “I haven’t even had time to go home yet.” He was a quarter horse jockey, ridding for his uncle’s stables. He’d won his race on Sunday afternoon—somewhere on the East Coast.  He opened the worn leather satchel he carried over his shoulder and showed me what was inside. Cash. A great deal of cash. His prize money was more than I made in a year. He was headed to the bank at his lunch break. He told me had raced at tracks all over the country, and he ‘placed’ often enough that he made a very good living, indeed.

“Holy mackerel,” I said. “If you can earn that kind of money, what are you doing in school instead of racing full-time?”

This was his answer: “My mom died of cancer last year. She made me promise to graduate. So I will.”

I learned a good deal from my high school students, including to never underestimate a kid just because he or she looks seventeen on the outside. It’s what’s inside that’s the real glimpse of the future.