Father Figure

In 2009, I had the great fortune of serving as a co-author for a book titled Teaching Hope, Stories from the Freedom Writer Teachers.  As one of the original Freedom Writer teachers, I was asked to keep a journal throughout the course of an entire school year and choose an entry that would eventually become my contribution to the book.

Although it’s been quite some time since I wrote this story, the underlying message still rings true today.

Father Figure

The obnoxious, vibrating sound of my cell phone reverberated through the metal drawer of my standard issue teacher’s desk.  Only one person could possibly be calling me at 10:30 a.m. on a Wednesday morning.

“Hi honey, it’s me,” said my wife in between breaths.  She sounded as if she had just completed her morning jog.  “I’m pretty sure my water just broke.”

The rest of her words were unrecognizable as I began to formulate my game plan for the birth of our daughter.  I hung up the phone and raced back to my desk in search of the car keys, while my 4^th grade students stared intently.  The math assignment I had just given them sat untouched on their desks.  Their eyes followed my every move.

It wasn’t long before they began spewing rapid-fire questions.  Mr. Sissel, how much did she weigh?  What did you name her?  When are you coming back?

The fourth grade firing squad was about to reload when they were suddenly interrupted by a commanding voice from the back of the room.

“Guys, leave Mr. S. alone,” said Jason (not his real name) in a very mature tone.  “He doesn’t need to worry about us; his wife needs him right now.”  I had to look again to ensure that Jason was actually the one who uttered these words.  Typically, his comments were followed by a one-way pass to the principal’s office.

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I never imagined how the birth of my daughter would forever change me as a teacher.  From the moment my students entered the classroom on my first day back from paternity leave, I no longer saw them as students, but rather sons and daughters of parents just like myself.

As the students took their seats, I gazed at Jason.  As usual, his face was planted firmly on his desk and the journal he was supposed to be writing in was tucked away under a stack of papers.

“Jason, it’s good to see you again,” I whispered as I knelt down beside his desk.  “Could you please reflect in your journal about the importance of family?”

“I hate this journal and besides, I have nothing to write.  This is stupid.”  He had marked a giant “X” across his paper.

The light bulb suddenly began to illuminate.  Jason’s unwillingness to write in a journal, particularly about this topic, must stem from the fact that his father is not currently in his life.  He was missing an essential piece of his family’s foundation; a father.  I was the one who was temporarily filling that void.

Each day when I return home from school, I walk through the door, happily proclaiming, “Daddy’s here.”  My daughter runs to me in anticipation of a gentle hug or a warm kiss, because she knows her father is home.  When I open the door to Room 10 and witness the range of emotions on my student’s faces, I become a father again.  A father to every Jason, who needs someone to love them, respect them, or just listen to them.

As a teacher of ten years, I’ve become a better father.  As a father of one year, I’ve become an even better teacher.