She was selecting courses for her final semester in college, and a wave of relief washed over her when I assured her that a lighter course load was perfectly acceptable. All she seemed to think about was how to work as much as possible to save money for living independently after graduation. Juggling three part-time jobs, she confided that living with her parents, both remarried, was not an option. Her father had lost his job, faced foreclosure, and moved into a cramped apartment that lacked space for her. Her mother, busy with younger children, made it clear that my student was not welcome. “I’m just worried I won’t have anywhere to stay,” she admitted.
My heart ached for her. As a determined first-generation college student, she exemplified the spirit of many who attend our state college, drawn by its affordable tuition. They arrive with aspirations but are often burdened by anxieties surrounding finances and academic readiness. Coming from a rural school district that struggled with resources, she stepped onto campus as a freshman without even knowing how to send an email. Yet, her passion for learning and her hard work allowed her to catch up to her more privileged peers. She frequently expressed gratitude for the support I provided in class.
Over time, we shared glimpses of our lives. When I discovered her talent for singing, I mentioned my young daughter’s love for music. When my daughter landed a role in a local musical, I shared my excitement with her. She recounted the joy she felt landing her first significant role in a high school production, despite her mother’s initial indifference. “She didn’t even know I could sing,” she said, but on opening night, she spotted her mother in the audience, tears streaming down her face.
I could hardly fathom not knowing whether my daughter could sing, as she was always belting out tunes. While my student was more reserved about her talent, I sensed something deeper. In an era when concerns about overbearing parents dominate discussions, she had parents who were preoccupied with their own challenges, leaving them unable to recognize her unique gifts.
In that moment, I felt a strong urge to offer her the care she truly deserved. If only I could invite her into my home to provide her with a sense of security. My guest room was available; she could be like a big sister to my only child. However, I recognized that such aspirations exceeded the role of a professor. I was fulfilling my duties as her educator and mentor, guiding her toward a degree that, regardless of current debates about student debt, is vital for her to surpass her parents’ circumstances. I didn’t need to step into a maternal role, yet my instincts drew me to her.
I expressed how remarkable she was, assuring her that her hard work and dedication would lead to success. “Teaching you is a gift,” I said, tears brimming in my eyes. The thought of her departure was already heavy on my heart.
As graduation approaches again this year, I think of her and the many other students I’ve grown close to throughout my teaching career. It remains difficult to say goodbye. Despite the passing years, my connections with students only deepen, taking on a distinctly nurturing quality. I’ve come to understand their personal struggles—relationships, career anxieties, immigration issues, and mental health challenges that no young adult should endure.
I also take immense pride in the individuals they have become. Many have surpassed expectations, earning national awards and securing spots in prestigious graduate programs. They have published articles and received job offers despite the challenging market. Watching them grow from insecure teenagers into confident, purpose-driven professionals renews my faith in the future of journalism.
I often joke about my feelings, saying, “I have one child, but then there are my students.” However, I realize that this metaphor is complex. I can’t genuinely be a mother to this large, perpetually young group, especially since I don’t grade or recommend them like a parent would.
Ultimately, I don’t possess the intricate dynamics of a true parent-child relationship. The student who once confided her housing fears didn’t need another mother; she found her own way. Just before graduation, her mother unexpectedly invited her to move back home until she found work. By summer’s end, she had secured a job. A year later, she became a flight attendant. While it’s not the conventional path for a journalism graduate, I couldn’t be happier for her. I love seeing her Facebook posts showcasing her travels during layovers, especially the ones with her mother.
Most real mothers would struggle with the abrupt goodbyes that graduation day brings. My college hosts department receptions following the commencement ceremony, complete with festive cakes. Yet, few families stay for long, choosing instead to rush off, leaving faculty to enjoy the leftovers in a somewhat forlorn circle.
I try not to take it too personally. I remind myself that cheering for my enthusiastic students as they cross the stage is the best farewell I could offer.
In this time of questioning the value of a college education, websites like Payscale provide families with data on graduates’ earnings. However, these platforms fail to capture the profound emotional bonds that can form between professors and students. For me, the value is immeasurable, and I hope my students will feel the same as they embark on their futures.
In conclusion, the journey of teaching extends beyond academics; it encompasses heartfelt connections and the bittersweet process of letting go as students step into their next chapters.