I Can’t Fix This
I Can’t Fix This
I knew it last week when I first heard about the situation. I consider myself a fixer. I find things that are wrong and try to fix them. As an assistant principal, I work in an environment that on a lot of days there are many things to fix. It fits my personality very well, except when I can’t fix things.
As I listen to this particular parent, I can hear the fear in her voice and see the lack of answers in her eyes. She is just as overwhelmed as her students and tries to hold it together for them. I am sensitive to the situation but also need more information. I need information so that our team could make the best decisions on how to help her kids.
I realize that at this point, we might not be able to fix the problem, but we can help her kids.
Today
I walk by the office and see a student on their phone. A few minutes later after talking to a few teachers, I head back to my office and see the same student talking on their phone. The head attendance secretary says, “I need to talk to you.”
We head into a nearby office, and she explains the situation. The student isn’t really on the phone, but pretending to be on the phone so they don’t have to go back to class. I realize at this moment that I can’t fix this.
Three weeks ago this student’s father passed away. This is unfixable. There is not a solution or policy that covers what to do in moments like these. We do the best we can do, with the skills that we have. It’s difficult for me to expect a 14-year-old kid to focus on classwork more than his existence or place in the world.
I ask the student to follow me to my office.
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to go get you something?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Have you called your mom?”
“Yes, she is not answering.”
“Let me see what I can do. Do you want a candy bar?”
“No.”
I leave a few on my desk just in case.
“The psychologist and all of our counselors are teaching in the Math classes today, do you want to talk, I can listen?”
“No.”
“Do you just want to hang out in here?”
“Can I?”
“Absolutely. I’m going to shut the blinds and step out. You can hang out in here. I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
I hand the student a box of tissues and slowly walk out of the office. I struggle with my own emotions as I try to figure out what to say and how to help. I close the door and don’t say anything. I take the easy way out.
After school, the student is sitting with their mom going over the day’s events.
The attendance secretary is sitting down explaining what happened. I sit down next to her and hand the mom a piece of candy. She smiles and says, “Thank you.”
I crack a small joke and know that there will be similar days in the coming weeks and months.
I am not ready for them.