A week after the trip, the class began preparing for a big siyum. It was one of the main events of the year, and singing was a big part of it.

“Who wants to try out for a solo?” my wife asked.

A bunch of girls volunteered, and she had them each come up in turn to the front of the classroom and sing a song. Afterward, my wife turned to the ostracized student.

“Would you like to try out too?” she asked gently.

The girl was taken aback. Unsure of how to deal with the fact that everyone was suddenly looking at her, the girl shook her head.

My wife, however, was not taking no for an answer.

“I really want you to,” she said.

Seeing that her teacher was adamant, the girl gave in and made her way to the teacher’s desk.

She began to sing, and as my wife later told me, she watched as the mouths of the entire class literally fell open. There was no question in anyone’s mind that she had the best voice they had ever heard.

Turning to the class, my wife asked, “Girls, what do you think? Should she be the main soloist at the event?”

The question was barely out of her mouth and heads were nodding all over the room. The girl that nobody liked received the coveted role of soloist at the production — and from one second to the next, she went from the bottom of the class to someone with social standing. Suddenly she went from being a “tree” to being a person. Nobody made fun of her anymore, and nobody had anything unkind to say about her. Instead, they talked to her and asked for her opinion and complimented her singing. It didn’t take very long before it seemed as if the girl nobody liked was part of the inner circle.

She gave a smashing performance, and her newfound self-confidence spilled over to other areas too. She began getting better marks and within a very short time, everything had changed for her.

Ten years later, I was driving my wife to school and I saw her wave at a girl who was passing by.

“Guess who that is,” she said. “It’s the girl I gave a solo to at the performance years ago.”

I remembered my wife telling me the story — how a girl who had nothing going for her had experienced a complete and total rebirth, all because her teacher had taken the time to figure out a way to help her shine.

“She’s in college now,” my wife said. “She’s studying something in the medical field.”

“Do you think she still remembers the story of the solo, and how it changed her life?” I asked her.

My wife didn’t know, but she decided to ask. Sliding down her window, my wife called the girl over to the car. It was obvious that she was a very confident person.

“Do you remember the time when I gave you a solo at the big event?”

The girl looked at my wife for a long time. Finally, she spoke. “Do I remember? Are you kidding? That solo was the moment I became me. The only reason I’m able to do the things I do today was because of that solo. That solo gave me the strength to overcome everything else in my life and to find the person hidden deep inside me, the girl who wasn’t able to open her mouth, the girl nobody liked, the girl with no friends.”

Then she looked at my wife and said, “I will never forget.”

Sometimes when I’m sitting in my own classroom trying to get through the material I need to teach, I can be tempted to just focus on the learning. But then I remember how my wife changed the life of her student by being aware of what was going on around her, and I remind myself that being a rebbi or a teacher or a principal isn’t just about covering ground. It’s about making sure the neshamos entrusted in your care will leave your classroom at the end of the year in a better, happier. and more self-confident place than they were when they walked inside.

And then I open my eyes and ears and I do my job.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1088)