They called me Mr. Riley.
No matter what it sounds like, this isn’t the beginning of a movie where the “cool,” “hip” English teacher breaks through to the kids by sitting backward in a chair and rapping Shakespeare. But the truth is closer than I’d like: This semester, I was an Ignite Fellow with Teach for America.
My LinkedIn says I rehearsed lesson plans to reach underperforming second graders in underserved schools while practicing culturally aware pedagogical methods. It says I intervened in high school dropout and incarceration rates by providing engaging tutoring sessions four days per week tailored to students’ individual levels and interests. As if it forgot, it adds that I adapted during lessons when students required different approaches. Oh, and most crucially, it states that I ensured students’ learning outcomes were accomplished.
These things are true, but they’re clunkily translated from human to LinkedInese. They miss the point entirely, like a stray frisbee gone into the neighbor’s yard.
What I really did was gently handle tears when I informed my student that stone is spelled with a tricky silent e, not like ston. I became a proud expert in negotiations, or perhaps a shameful master of appeasements (“okay, we can play tic-tac-toe while reading irregular words on your turn — no, not regular tic-tac-toe — but only if you finish reading the story”).
I felt my heart deflate like a kiddy pool at summer’s end when, one random Wednesday in Brody Learning Commons, I teared up as I said goodbye to my students and realized that I would never see them again.
When we began back in winter, they proclaimed they hated reading and preferred math instead. I asked them to identify the differences between words like spat, spit and spot, and they asked me to quiz them on addition facts. I told them I didn’t know anything about math, just reading, so that was all I could teach them — they giggled when I pretended to not even know two plus two.
Things seemed to happen slowly, then all at once — like the luxury apartments built in my hometown, or like ancient empires falling. My students cleared their learning goals for the semester in the first few weeks. When I would work with one student, the other would practice writing words on their whiteboard instead of trying to quiz me on math and get me to reveal that I’m not earnestly innumerate. My days alternated from reading Ancient Greek plays and famous poems and short stories to chicken-scratched notes like “rileystrait is dbesd,” which I was able to decipher as “Riley Strait is the best.”
“Wait, what does ‘Riley Strait’ mean?” asked the student who wrote the note. I told her it was my name. “Can I call you Mr. Riley?” I told her yes, she could. With the palm of her hand, she smudged out Strait and appended Mr. to front: “Mr. Riley is dbesd”
Just once, I let dbesd mean the best and didn’t correct her. From then on, they called me Mr. Riley.
Suddenly, the luxury apartments were built; suddenly, the ancient empires crumbled. Suddenly, it was one random Wednesday in Brody Learning Commons, and I had merrily relented to their requests for just one more game of tic-tac-toe over and over, and we were five minutes past when our final lesson was supposed to end.
Through my computer, I heard their teacher rhythmically clapping to elicit their attention. It was time to go.
My laptop read three full bars of Wi-Fi, but I myself turned into a laggy Zoom call of hurried sentiments and goodbyes: regular, then frozen, then words rushing out all at once.
The last thing I said — after how proud I was, how much fun we had all semester, how great I knew they would do in third grade, et cetera — was something like: I want you to remember that, just because I won’t see you guys next year, that doesn't mean you can’t still read all the tough words we learned this year.
What I meant was: Just because you do it alone does not mean you cannot do difficult things.
My student who once wrote “Mr. Riley is dbesd” started looking sad and tilted her camera down to cover her eyes, and her bottom lip frowned such that it covered her top lip like blankets pulled over one’s head to deny the morning sun.
Her last words to me were, “Okay, that’s enough,” and then she logged off.
I remembered the first time I messaged my students’ teacher to report that they were doing a good job. That day, the teacher had them stand in front of the class and read my message aloud to reward them for their good behavior. My student told me about it the next morning, and I remember her saying, “I felt so proud of myself.”
Through eyes beginning to burn, wet and red like roses after rain, I typed a message to their teacher:
SUPER SUPER SHOUTOUT to G_____ and T_______! I am so indescribably proud of both of them for the work they’ve put in this semester. everyday, they showed up to persevere and were their own biggest advocates — it’s been so special to watch their confidence and enthusiasm for reading grow throughout our time together, not to mention their own confidence. I know they will do amazing things, and I want them to know to always believe in themselves and never forget what they’re capable of ?
