for the sake of meaning

There are some things we can only talk about, seriously, after some time has passed and the emotions dulled, yet not completely destroyed. It's so easy to brush off talking about one's so-called "purpose in life" as just another thing that people think, especially an incoming senior, English major, destined perhaps only for teaching or some similarly low-wage profession. Or law school.

I admit I began tutoring as way to earn money, quickly and easily. It started with violin, then once I got into Princeton, moved onto SATs and general literacy--which, due to the lack of writing teachers within the NJ Asian circles, proved to be generally lucrative and always in demand. I've had students come and go, graduate, bang their heads on the table to demonstrate their unwillingness to learn any kind of writing, suck up, cry, or even impart to me silly, gossipy things that I should never (like, ever) say to anyone else. On my last day at Jason Kim's Academy, the kids made me origami rabbits and anything else they could remember. We took pictures, we reluctantly said our goodbyes; yet while these kids were certainly dear to me, and I think about them often, they aren't the ones that really stick in my memory.

In fact, there's only been one student so far who can claim that position. He came to me a few years ago through a good family friend, and I started him on the regulars: reading, grammar, essays, vocab. Having been accustomed to dealing with kids who whine and complain with every assignment, I was completely taken back when one day, he looked up from his work and asked, "Can you give me more homework? I can handle it." Then gave me a big smile. And he wasn't sucking up--why would he? These grades don't count, and why the hell would he care what I thought?

At the end of every class, he would remark, completely surprised, at how quickly the time had passed. He's one of the only students I've let come around Thanksgiving break, specifically because he requested to have another class (again, an extremely rare case). His stories were absolutely amazing; not only were his plots beyond imaginative, his prose displayed a kind of maturity that I rarely see, even amongst my peers. He was interested in what I had to teach him, and tried to get as much information out of me as possible. All assignments were handed in on time, all books not just read but enjoyed, and we would chat excitedly about them for most of class.

He's the kind of student most teachers hope to have the pleasure of instructing at some point in their careers. I shared with him my favorite poems and was ecstatic to find how responsive he was, and how much of his own opinions he could express, while still in middle school. I made sure his parents knew he was my absolute best student. It must've gotten back to him because in the next few classes, his eyes would light up, and he would put more effort into his work--which I didn't believe was even possible. But he did it.

Then one day he came to class, and I noticed that something had changed. He wasn't paying attention to his work. His reading wasn't even finished. His essay wasn't the 3-5 pages I had been used to receiving, but an embarrassingly short paragraph. He was moody, unresponsive, and he didn't smile until the very end of class when, out of desperation, I cracked a ridiculously horrible joke just to lighten the mood. And even then, he only smiled to be polite. I could tell. His responses were painfully monosyllabic.

A few weeks later, I found out that his parents had decided to move him to a science and technical high school. The decision was absolutely final. I talked to him about it, and I could see that he was trying to hold back tears. He wasn't even interested in science, he said, but his parents told him it would be better for him in the long run. I listened, saddened to the very pit of my stomach, as he listed all the things that would be lost, such as the music programs, his friends, his favorite classes. From then on, I didn't push him to complete his assignments; I knew he was only thinking, "What's the use anyway?"

Do you know how it feels to be completely helpless? It's the worst thing I have ever experienced. At first, I had thought he was just going through a phase, the whole teenage thing, but the truth turned out to be so much worse. I told my mom the situation and, because she was friends with the boy's mother, asked her to please try to change her mind and let him at least stay in public school for another year. But what could she do? After that, every class went on as if I was teaching just another student. We went by the usual schedule: write a little, read a little, do some exercises. Class dragged on by the minute.

Even now, it just makes me so angry, and yet so thankful, for my own parents, for letting me choose my own path and pursue my own interests. I swear something in him died that one week, and it still hasn't come back yet. It just makes me so so sad. I don't know how else to describe it. And I've tried everything! I really have, just to get him excited about class again, but I think my own disappointment shows through and kinda kills it. I'm not saying that this experience has somehow given me that "purpose in life," or if it is a purpose, it's not a very big one. All I can do is encourage, and hope that the parents don't fuck it up by playing the "practical profession" card. I know there are definite benefits to that, and some students are able to accept it, even understand it. But if the kid rages against it, and becomes harrowingly distant after the decision is passed...just reverse it, please. And so, if I ever become a teacher, it would be for this reason: not to be some kind of savior, but to prevent just a few unfortunate things from happening to genuinely talented students. And if I can do that--if I can just somehow gather up the strength and knowledge to convince these stubborn parents to consider their kids' interests--then (and I mean this with all my heart) it would all be worth it, really.