It’s a Friday morning, and already I am exhausted from the long week filled with reviews, testing, and modified schedules, not to mention the feeling of defeat after reviewing scores on midterm exams. Just when I decide I am done with teaching all together, that I simply cannot go much longer, I am reminded why I am in the profession of changing lives. A student walks in the door at the start of the instructional day and tells me, “Miss, I’m not feeling well. Me hicieron ojo [Someone gave me the evil eye].”

In deep South Texas, where Mexican Americans are the majority, there is a rich layer of cultural beliefs and customs. The “evil eye” is one such belief. It is believed that when someone admires something you possess, be it a personal belonging or physical characteristic, you may suffer from illness, pain, and or sudden, unexplained loss of your possession as a result. I could not help but smile. Before me stood a student with special needs, who some educators would call “challenging,” and who just the day before when asked about his one wish this holiday season explained he didn’t have a dad. Now, concerned about his well-being, I asked him, “Really, what happened? Who gave you ojo [the evil eye]?” He then explained how his mother was convinced his suffering was the result of the infamous evil eye. My immediate reaction was thinking that this child was loved, and I smiled, reassuring him that he would feel better soon.

Two seconds later, a second student entered the room. I could help but notice his new tennis shoes; I commented that they were cool. He responded, “Thanks, I got them at the pulga [flea market].” The rest of the students laughed, and I could immediately tell he was not lying. He comes from a large family, and his father passed away suddenly last school year. Times are hard, and yet this student comes in every day to school with a great disposition.

These brief anecdotes represent the epitome of my classroom. Day in and day out I serve children who in the educational realm are referred to as at-risk, economically disadvantaged, and culturally and linguistically diverse, and in some cases I serve students requiring special education. Before me is a class of 20 students, each with academic histories that project more academic failure than they project success stories. The odds are stacked up against them, but despite their harsh realities, I see a fire that brews tenacity and resilience within each.

I am in the middle of my 15th year teaching, and one would think I am a veteran. I got this, right? Nothing could prepare me for the personal stories my students choose to share with me through their writing. Anyone can teach a student who is “on-level,” but it takes a special individual to teach those who are struggling academically, and whose struggles often stem from external factors that are beyond a teacher’s control.

If my students trusted me enough to share their most personal stories of courage amidst adversity, then I needed to trust that they would work hard to overcome and close some academic achievement gaps this year. With that said, I promised to teach the whole child in my classroom. This concept was introduced in the district in which I teach a few years ago. The idea is that educators are aware of and respond to the needs of students that may at times go beyond the academic arena.

As an educator, I am aware that if my student is hungry in the morning, he most likely will not concentrate on the lesson of comparative and superlative forms of adjectives. As an educator, I am aware that if he does not have his homework in the morning, the time change may be affecting his amount of daylight needed to complete his homework in a home without electricity. As an educator, I am aware that if my student has broken his only pair of glasses, I must accommodate his needs by sitting him as close to the board as possible. As an educator, I am aware that if my student is not wearing a jacket on a chilly day, I must find a jacket for him so that he does not get sick in between transitions to and from the gym and cafeteria. As an educator, I am aware that if my student detests PE because his feet ache, I must find a new pair of sneakers that fit so he can get his daily exercise. As an educator, I am aware that if my student is wearing large uniform pants, a hand-me-down from his older brother, I must find him a belt or new pair of pants so he is not embarrassed to stand up and sharpen his pencil. As an educator, I am aware that little things matter. As an educator, I am aware that paying attention to the little things cultivates the heart and fosters tenacity and resilience. Words alone cannot express how powerful teaching the whole child can be for students with many diverse academic needs, especially bilingual learners. With over 40% of my students considered bilingual learners, I knew it was imperative I use the concept of the whole child to reach my students. I understand that language learning is complex and that factors inside and outside the school affect learning for bilingual learners. Most important, I understand that in order to provide the highest quality of instruction, I need to account for all factors when planning for bilingual learners in the classroom.

Teaching the whole child in my classroom has created a bond between my students and me. We are a family. If someone is hurt or has an incident with a substitute in another classroom, I am often the first to hear about it as students come to my class during transitions seeking help. If someone gets in trouble outside of class during lunch, or before or after school, I am told what “really happened.” When one student does not have a dollar to purchase a ticket to the school dance, the entire class will pitch in to make sure we have 100% participation. This is what I call family. I am Mother Hen, and because of that, they come to school every day willing to display their academic weakness on standardized tests because they are beyond standardized. They are exceptional, extraordinary, and full of heart. The best part is that I am an eye witness day in and day out to their ability to love, care, and support one another. For me, this is the greatest achievement of all. If I can teach the whole child, I will eventually reach the whole child. The rest will fall into place.

My students may not have the ideal score on the midterm exam, but I know they are stronger and more confident academically after walking through my classroom. I could not be happier knowing that for each of my students, I give them the belief of conquering the supposed impossible academic conquests. There is a dicho, or saying, in our culture that says, “Querer es poder,” that translates to “Love is power.” Every day I empower my students by cultivating the desire to work hard, to learn from failure, to embrace challenge, and to understand that they are defined by their tenacity and resilience, not by the score on their most recent exam. I will admit that there are many days like Friday morning when I am emotionally drained, but I also understand that my profession is about human investment. I know that the human element in my profession cannot be ignored, and most definitely cannot be isolated from accompanying emotions. I am reminded daily that I am changing lives. I am touching the heart, and because of that, I am teaching the whole child.

Carolina G. López is a middle school bilingual teacher of reading and writing at Weslaco Independent School District in Weslaco, Texas, USA. She is a reading specialist, master reading teacher, and Doctor of Education in curriculum and instruction with a specialization in bilingual studies.