My employee's inflexibility put both our jobs at risk

Layla: How will I ever recover from your betrayal?

Mrs. Schreiber: Sometimes it’s more important to be flexible than to be principled.

Layla

Times have changed.

I’ve been teaching third grade for years now, got the curriculum down pat a while ago, but still, things change every year — because the students change. Things have simply evolved over time.

I sound like I’m in my sixties, but actually, I’ve only been in the field 12 years. Still, anyone who’s been in chinuch over the last decade — or anyone with open eyes and ears for that matter — would tell you the same. Everything’s changed.

I see it most with the parents.

Back when I started, most parents came to PTA with the attitude of we’re here to work together. They’d say things like how can we help my child, or they’d thank me for working on their child’s challenging behaviors. These days, many parents — not all, not even most, but a significant many — are just… defensive. They come in with a chip on their shoulder, like I, or the school, are out to get them. They’re ready to pounce on anything I say, ready to go to battle on behalf of their kid.

MY

student Shira was the prime example of this kind of situation. She was the oldest child of very wealthy parents, a little spoiled and self-centered, but also a bright and attentive girl who enjoyed learning. Her parents, though, seemed to think she was way more fragile than any other child her age.

Shira participated actively in every class, had lots of stories and thoughts to share, and was one of the first to be awarded the weekly “best composition” award. So when her mother charged at me during PTA, I was surprised.

“Shira works so hard on her writing,” she said, barely acknowledging my greeting. “Can you please recognize that in the classroom and acknowledge her composition efforts? She says she’s better than everyone else and you still don’t give her the weekly award for best writing.”

I was taken aback. I knew I’d given Shira the award — she was probably the first or second girl to have received it. I checked my book to be sure, and pointed it out to Mrs. Isaacs.

“Shira is very talented, and you can be very proud of her — she has a great imagination, creative use of language, and she works hard on her composition each week,” I said. “And she did receive the award — in September. She was the second girl in the whole class to receive it.”

Mrs. Isaacs frowned deeply. “September? But it’s been a few months since then. She writes a composition every week. Why hasn’t she been recognized again?”

I blinked. Wasn’t that obvious? “Shira’s essays are excellent, always. But I do have to give other students a chance to receive the award for good writing. I can’t always give it to the same girl. It would be demoralizing.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Isaacs said, leaning forward. I blinked again; her diamond earrings dazzled my eyes. “Is this award merit-based or is it not? If Shira’s work is better than her classmates’, shouldn’t she get the award? If it’s just a case of taking turns to receive a prize, the award is meaningless.”

Whoa. I was flummoxed, momentarily, but stood my ground.

“Shira is an excellent writer for her age, and her compositions would be a candidate for an award every week, but I can’t simply choose the same girl each time,” I said, hoping my voice sounded warm but firm. The Isaacs family weren’t people to mess with, that much was obvious. “Instead, I look for another piece that also shines, in its own way. Every girl has talents, whether it’s in description, or a creative opening line, or even how hard she tries. I like to teach the girls to learn from everyone.”

I thought that would be the final word on the composition award issue, but Mrs. Isaacs didn’t relent. “Other girls can get recognized in math, in history, in sports. Shira puts her heart and soul into her essays, and I would like her to be awarded more often. She is crushed every week when her name is not called for the best writing.”

Then without waiting for a response, she got up to leave, not caring that I hadn’t had a chance to tell her anything else the entire evening. It seemed to me that she had simply come to impart a message. Or a command.

“I’m going to speaking to the principal about this,” Mrs. Isaacs said, pausing at the door. “This is my daughter’s self-esteem, her emotional well-being. I want to make sure it’s taken care of.”