The first time I met Damon, he walked into my office yawning and dragging his feet. He sat down across the table from me, pulled his school basketball hoodie up over his head, and closed his eyes.

I thought, Great. They sent me a jock who doesn’t care about school and who thinks basketball will be his savior. What am I supposed to do with this kid? He can’t even stay awake here!

I volunteer at an inner-city high school, helping seniors write college entrance and scholarship essays. The school is private, need-based, and donor-funded. All of the students who attend live well below the poverty level. Students must apply and qualify for the program, which expects them to attend college preparatory classes four days per week and work an internship in the community one day per week. They are provided laptops, uniforms, two meals a day, counseling, and even showers and laundry facilities if needed. Their families are expected to contribute minimal tuition payments each month to demonstrate their commitment. The school aims to empower disadvantaged students to attend college—most would be the first to do so in their families.

To help find inspiration for a unique essay topic, I typically start by interviewing each student about their interests and backgrounds. This often leads to them sharing their life stories…and my realization that there is so much more to these students than what meets the eye. 

Damon’s story was no exception. 

I started our conversation by commenting that he seemed tired. He admitted that basketball was wearing him out. When I asked about his GPA and potential career plans, he told me that he carried a 2.3 and didn’t care what he majored in; he just wanted to play basketball at whatever school he attended.

When I asked him what he thought he’d like his essay to address, he said, “Definitely about being a man. My parents say that I am the only one they can count on. I am the future for them.”

My requests for further clarification eventually led to him telling me his story…

Damon, a middle child of four, was living with his little sister and parents who were recovering drug addicts. He didn’t grow up with his two older siblings because they had been placed into the foster care system when they were very young. 

He shared, “During elementary and middle school, I was bullied ‘cause kids knew about my parents and ‘cause I tried my best with hygiene but wasn’t always clean and didn’t have nice clothes. I got pushed around and had milk poured on me at lunch in seventh grade. All that mattered was getting home to make sure that me and my little sister were fed. I made cornflakes or if there was turkey, I got really good at making turkey sandwiches.”

Damon emotionally told me that he would beg his parents to stop using drugs, but they wouldn’t. “I asked them again and again, ‘Please stop using. Please stop.’ But they just kept doing it. There was no food in the house, no clothes that fit.”

Eventually, Damon’s aunt took him and his sister home with her, which inspired his parents to get clean. Once both of his parents were sober and employed, Damon and his little sister moved back home to live with them. 

He commented that, while he was happy for his parents’ recovery, their long-term abuse and negligence still affected him every day. He felt like he did not have a childhood. He said he never wanted to be like his parents, so he used basketball as his outlet. They still told him he was the only one they could count on—and he was only 16. 

As Damon told his story, he became more and more alert. By the end of our time together, he was crying. When the bell rang for his next class, he stood, shook my hand, thanked me for allowing him to tell his story, and said he hadn’t realized how much he needed to share it. 

He thanked me—the one who had initially judged him as some punk kid wasting time others could be using. The one who also judged him based on experiences with other athletes, other inner-city students I had worked with, and previously unacknowledged biases. 

As I sat in my office in awe of his story, attempting to reconcile my preconceived notions about him with everything I had just learned, I realized that I was the one who needed to thank him. I needed to thank Damon, a high school senior who became a man long before he should have, for transforming my perspective.

How often do we as educators harbor tainted perspectives of our students? Perhaps we taught an older sibling who gave us trouble, or we have heard stories about a particular student from former teachers. Maybe we feel frustrated as we struggle to understand a non-native, English-speaking student. Perhaps a student’s IEP overwhelms us at times. Maybe a student’s behavioral issues disrupt our classroom, or a student’s unkind or thoughtless interactions hurt other classmates or even us. Or maybe the student simply refuses to engage in our class no matter what we do.

Listening to and accepting our most difficult students can be exhausting. But, if we are willing to offer the time to get to know our students, we can gain powerful, new perspectives that help us approach our students with compassion and grace. They can teach us more about what’s driving our students forward or holding them back. They can provide us with creative insight and ways to educate each individual. Most importantly, these perspectives can help us move past our biases and be the hands and feet of Jesus to our students regardless of how they appear when they enter our classrooms.

Anne Davidson Kusmer is a former high school English teacher and guidance counselor who currently tutors for college entrance exams and coaches writing. Married to Jim for 30 years, she recently became an empty nester, spending much of her time with her rescue puppy, Monty.