An Accidental Name

For a few short months last year, I had the privilege of knowing a student that we’ll call Bob. Something happened to Bob’s legs at birth, so while the rest of his body grew normally, his legs did not. For this reason, Bob’s primary mode of transportation was his wheelchair. Bob’s hands were strong. The rest of his body was, too. He would participate in music class just like everyone else, scooting himself out of his wheelchair and walking himself around on his hands whenever it came time to move. I enjoyed teaching Bob…and I told him many times that I believed that he could be an amazing athlete. I still do.

Each morning that he was with us before he transferred to another school, Bob descended the bus on the chair lift. For safety purposes, I held his chair in place when he was on the lift. While he was more than capable of wheeling himself into the building and taking himself to class, he liked it when one of his friends, TJ, met him at the bus and rolled him into the building. Faithful friend that he was, TJ waited on Bob every morning. As he waited, we talked. In the process of talking, I started calling TJ, Teej. I’ve called him that ever since.

Recently, Teej did something out of character in music class.
I don’t remember what he did, but in the midst of a class transition,
I looked at him and quietly said, “TJ. What were you doing?”
He very respectfully responded, “TJ?! My name is not TJ, Ms. Deaton.”
A bit confused, I said, “Okay. Then. Toussain.”
Again very respectfully but somewhat playfully, he said, “My name isn’t Toussain either.”
Very confused by this point, because I knew that I knew the boy’s name, I said, “Well what’s your name?”
He smiled and said, “My name’s Teej.” It was sort of like, duh.
I smiled softly and then we all went on with class.

That conversation quickly got lost in the chaos that was the rest of his class—his was the class that I wrote about last Thursday that ended with three students crying because one of them was moving—but I remembered it yesterday when Teej showed up during his recess to show me his recorder. I had no idea that he was coming, but it was a neat little visit and it ended with us making plans to exchange his dollar store recorder for a five-dollar store recorder and a borrowed recorder book. [Teej is in a lower grade; I currently only do recorders with 5th grade. So this plan was top secret.]

Curious about last week’s name declaration, I asked TJ when I saw him today if anyone but me calls him Teej. He said no. Then he added that some people in his class are starting to call him Teej. I said, “Because they hear me calling you Teej?” He said, “Yes, ‘mam.”

I confess. I unashamedly smiled.

There are many days when I wonder what in the world I’m doing teaching. I come home exhausted, feeling like I’ve been run over by a bus, wanting to beat my head against a wall, because it often feels like I’m talking to a wall of overly chatty bricks that don’t want to listen.

But then I have a very chill student who rarely shows any emotion ask me to play an upbeat character education song from months ago because she remembers it and it was her favorite.

Or I have a very hyper student who rarely shows any interest in music ask me to show his class a clip that he enjoyed from Fantasia.

Or I have a very excited group of Harnett Off-Broadway students descend upon my room as a thrilled pack of loud animals and wholeheartedly sing songs that they haven’t sung in weeks.

Or I have a struggling student draw a picture of me and write about how he wants to make me proud.

And then I think about Teej and how I accidentally gave him a name and I think, “This is why I do what I do.”

It’s little moments of light, love, hope, and humor that keep teachers doing what we do.