In 1980, as a sophomore in college, I had the disastrous idea of taking a sewing class.
After realizing a bit too late that sewing was not my forte, my destiny, nor my passion, the Home Economics professor left a message on the answering machine giving me one last chance before she finalized her grades. Did you do any work on the final project? I pictured the scraps of material still pinned to the pattern. If you did, the message continued, I could give you some credit and you wouldn't fail the class.
She'd given me her address, and late at night, I left my scraps on her porch. I received a passing D grade which was still clearly a failure.
Decades later, it warms my heart when I think of that teacher trying to save me when I didn't care to save myself.
Here I am today, doing the same thing. I just had my third zoom call with a student who previously ignored 15 emails sent over the past three terms. He finally agreed to work with me in bringing up his grade.
It is in this moment that I remember the teacher who gave me another chance. I wish I could thank her; I wish I remembered her name. It is a small cosmic reminder of payback, of karma, of the need for people who care.
My errant student passed the class.
I hope that in some distant day, he too thinks of that woman, whose name he can't remember, and extends a little bit of needed mercy.
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