On Generosity

The generous man will be prosperous,
And he who waters will himself be watered.

Proverbs 11:25

A few minutes before six this morning, I come to a halt in my cursory glance through the Proverbs, which has been starting my days in December. Outside, it is still completely dark and well below freezing, which my inky black windows remind me as I peer out, hoping for a hint of dawn as a reason, a hope, a promise that this night will not last forever. I look back at the proverb, feeling guilty that I was distracted by the earliness of the morning and the soft, pleasant comfort of bed. Once again, it seems so isolated and unearthly to be up at this hour. In self-centered agony, I feel I'm the only one awake in the world, that I must surely be suffering alone the tortures of darkest winter in the Northwest.

The generous man will be prosperous. I sigh and think dimly that the order seems off. I consider that the most generous people I can think of, whose names appear on the signs of libraries, theaters, symphony halls, and hospital wings, have been able to give out of the bountiful prosperity that they already enjoy. This, clearly, is not me. Anyway, I have a faint, early-morning suspicion that this generosity must have to do with more than finances, anyway. No loopholes for tired and young teachers, even if we don't have much money to give.

The sun has not yet risen when I arrive at school, tromping across the classroom in the heavy, warm and dusty darkness that reminds me of being far underground, close to the center of the earth. I plug in the Christmas lights that drape across the windows, and think the light is almost like candlelight. That makes me feel better about starting my work while it is still night. I pull up the eight window shades and stare out at the sky, which is just beginning to turn grey. The classroom is a magical, quiet place at this hour, a soothing place to wake up and wonder about the day.

Generosity. How will I be generous today? I know that I will not spend the day handing out cash or unearned good grades, even though my students would consider that very generous, indeed. The computer casts a blue glow over the classroom, spoiling the candlelight Christmas glow. I wonder what I can offer them, these funny, demanding people who will any minute storm in, asking for that missing assignment, or the answers to Friday's test, or what I did last weekend.

We are so tired these weeks at school. The calendar has tricked us, with an early Thanksgiving, into an extra week of school before Christmas, and students and teachers are ready for a break. Yesterday, Monday, the kids and I spent the day misunderstanding one another, a dreadful day full of mistakes and missteps, from which I came away feeling that none of us really heard anyone else, all day long. I am too tired, I complain to myself as I turn on the lights, too tired to be generous with myself. With my time, my energy, my attention. I don't have enough to be generous.

By lunch, the classroom has filled with students, all there for different reasons. Some come for the hot water, wanting to make their noodle meals. Some come to hang out with the noodlers. Some are doing homework quietly on the other side of the room. There are many today, though, who just want attention. Not bad attention, the kind that students get when they tag walls or throw tantrums in class. These are the kids who wander in from the halls to tell me stories about the cars they are fixing, the slopes they hope to ski this weekend, and the boys they like or wish they didn't like. Sometimes I feel flattered that they choose me, absent-minded young teacher, as their outlet, and more often I am ambivalent, nodding and correcting and occasionally replying. Today, I am too weary to be flattered or annoyed. I have no energy for grading or planning during lunch. I can only munch on a salami sandwich, sip cinnamon tea, and listen.

"Hey, Ms. D! Look who I found!" cries one boy, dragging another one into class behind him. "It's that one guy. The one we never see. Ever."

The sheepish absentee grimaces, perhaps waiting for a barrage of questions, and looks back at me. He's a great kid, if a little lost, who plays the viola and likes to read out loud. I have missed him in class in the last week, and am honestly glad to see him.

"Seriously," the first boy jokes, "What are you even doing here?"

"Hey, don't say that," I protest. "Welcome back. Seriously. I'm glad you're here. You're great."

The student shrugs, ninth-grade boy style, and slouches down into a corner with his friends. I wonder if he hears this enough, that he is valuable and interesting and fun to be around. I wonder if anyone hears that enough. Later, he crosses the room to silently offer me a stick of green gum. In the wordless gesture, a gift to his teacher, I hear the other half of the proverb: "And he who waters will himself be watered."

I think of the other ways my students have encouraged me already. Of the students who call out "Good morning!" as they pass my room on the way to their other classes. Of the ones who write thank-you notes and leave them in my mailbox. Of the girl who was excited to hear we were reading Othello aloud in class yesterday, saying, "Well, it's just so much better than the movie!" And I realize that any generosity I have shown to my students, those too-few moments I spend listening or encouraging, has made me quite prosperous, indeed.