Don't Bring Me No Bad News

That was the song the wicked witch sang in "The Wiz". It was the song that was playing in my head after I finished a couple of my students' report card conferences. On these days, report card conference days, I expect a lot of things: I expect tears, mostly from the kids when confronted with their lackluster performance. I expect smiles, from the knowing smirks of the parents to the surprised grins of the ones who ended up doing better than they thought they would. I expect to forget things, like the faces of the parents who I haven't seen since the first day of school. I expect to make a lot of trips up and down the stairs, checking in on my class and the substitute's ability to deal with the unruly elements of my fourth grade crew. I don't expect confrontations.
I work hard to keep an open line of communication with my students and their parents. I send home weekly behavior and performance reports. I give them my home phone number with the expectation that if there is a question about homework, or a concern about grades, or maybe they just want to check in on what their kid is up to six hours out of every day. When I had a mother refuse to sign her daughter's report card, I confess I was taken aback. These aren't closely guarded secrets, and since I leave my door propped open on most every day, I wonder why I don't have parents dropping by more often. Was this woman denying the reality that her daughter created? Was there something that I wasn't making clear? Was I missing a page that explained why this girl was not subject to the same limits and curriculum that the rest of my students were?
I asked her if she would take the paper, and call me if she had any questions. She harrumphed through pursed lips and, to her credit, she took the unsigned report card and went on her way. I sat for a while in silence, grateful that there wasn't another parent waiting in line to speak with me. Eight hours later, I'm still shaking my head, trying to figure out what I might have done differently. I know the truth, or at least the version that will make it possible for me to go back to work tomorrow. I know that any parent doesn't want to hear that their child is not measuring up. I know that my job is to make the best possible package out of children's future. It is my job. I am a teacher. A flummoxed, somewhat chagrined teacher, but a teacher, nonetheless.