Photo courtesy Trinity Episcopal School
If you’ve been a teacher long enough, you know that every few years, you get that perfect mix of students: the unicorn class. Somehow, this rare set of students is grouped together for a certain class period. It’s a diverse group, with a good ratio of girls to boys. No one too popular, not too many from one clique. No one has dated previously. They like each other.
Then the year starts, and they begin learning. They don’t raise their hands; they have a conversation. They get there early and thank you when they leave. They tell you what’s wrong when you ask. They want to know more. In my English class, they share their views on complex issues, and they understand that there are no right answers. They get my jokes.
They ask, “How was your weekend?” and not just to waste class time. They pass the tissue box to someone who is sniffling. They have pens and granola bars and extra Starbursts to share. They apologize when the pencil sharpener shavings fall on the floor, when their water bottle tips over and when they come in a few minutes late. They push their chairs in when class is over.
Because you think such warm thoughts about all of them, you get extra emotionally involved. You go to their games and search for final scores in the morning paper. You attend their performances and keep the programs. You sit down with them just to see what everyone’s having for lunch, what’s going on for the weekend. You call their parents by their first names. You help them craft a breakup speech, help them choose a college.
Then, it seems with every unicorn class, there is some kind of crisis. I’ve had students die. Students’ parents die. Teachers die. Life-changing injuries. Cancer. 9/11.
A global pandemic.
The class talks, shares, cries, gets mad, consoles, forgives. We get through it together. In a unicorn class, everyone has a role, everyone has a gift. In my two senior AP English classes at Trinity Episcopal School, I have painters, storytellers, mountain bikers, equestrians, actors, scientists, swimmers, salespeople, photographers, managers, leaders. I have surfers, travelers, goalies, an ice skater, a pianist. A grocery store cashier and motivational speaker in one. Eagle Scouts. Team captains, MVPs, a sports announcer and the school mascot. A current and future rock star or two.
How appropriate that a year no one will forget has given me two unicorn classes, the kind that you never want to see end, in a year dramatically cut short.
Class of 2020, as your world turns virtual and back again in the next few months and years, know this: You’re rare. Go to your next classrooms and offices and homes and be as friendly and funny and as versatile and passionate as you are — make others believe, as I do, that you’re extraordinary.
Betsy Reid has been a classroom teacher for 23 years and is head of the English department at Trinity Episcopal School.
