By Trisha Houghton

When I was 14 years old, I thought about my hair, boys, my grades, and swim practice, likely in that order. But, when I met Celia, who was 14 years old, pregnant, a (former) gang member, and prone to seizures, I could not really relate.  It began in Idaho where I was finishing  my teaching certification.  When I applied at the local middle school to tutor in the after school program, I discovered homebound tutoring was a thing.  I had never heard of it.  Since Celia was only 14 years old and pregnant, they really didn’t want her in school anyway.  Plus, she had diabetes and was prone to seizures, none of which I ever witnessed.  I would gather her work at the school from reluctant teachers and then teach her at her home a few hours per week; she was supposed to be working on her school work, additionally, on her own. 

Though my parents had divorced when I was young, my parents were involved in my life and encouraged my studies (my mom) and athletic involvement (my dad).  They cooked and cared for me, provided me a safe place to grow and mature.   I never realized what I had, of course, as a child or teen, or, really, how good I had it.  Celia’s mom wasn’t in the picture.  She had taken off, leaving behind two daughters, including Celia and her older teenage sister.  Her father worked in manual labor, hard and often, and the girls were left on their own quite a bit and took care of themselves mostly.  They lived in a small trailer and had a yappy chiwawa dog, which Celia often held protectively.  When Celia’s older sister joined a gang, Celia decided to do the same, acquiring a small tattoo on her hand that identified her gang.  In a sense, it was a family, a community, a place to belong.  Celia attended a party one night, met an older man, lost her virginity to this man, and never saw him again.  He went back over the border to Mexico. Nampa, Idaho’s community was about 25% migrant workers.  He may have come over to work, but he, unknowingly, left behind a daughter and a scared 14 year old girl.

After she discovered her pregnancy, which wasn’t very obvious even when I met Celia, she desired to no longer be associated with the gang.  Knowing her father would be working often, and feeling his daughter needed a motherly touch, her aunt took her in at her home and cared for Celia and her growing baby—a girl.  As her tutor, I helped her with her assignments and knew she could complete the 8th grade.  Celia wanted to succeed not just for herself, but also for her daughter.  She was lonely, didn’t really have friends to visit much; however, she was excited to welcome her daughter into the world and have someone to love and care for.  I distinctly remember helping her write an acrostic poem titled “Celia.”  It epitomized the hope she had for her daughter and also reflected on Celia’s life as a soon-to-be mother.  “C” began with “Crystal’s mom” as the description; the “I” was “intelligent,” which Celia did not quite believe, but I encouraged her to see herself that way.  Determined to finish 8th grade, Celia gave birth to little Crystal, who had a full head of dark hair; we took turns holding her as she did her science packets and math problems.  Celia and Crystal were facing odds that I knew nothing about personally.

 Celia did finish the 8th grade, but little did she know that she had become my teacher. When I first heard that I would be tutoring a 14 year old pregnant girl who was in a gang, I was a bit afraid and developed my own stereotype of what she would be like.  I imagined a hardened criminal, a loud, brash young lady, angry and violent.  Celia was none of this. As I spent month after month with Celia and, eventually Crystal, I found Celia to be quiet, sweet, and quite innocent; she truly wanted to be a good mother though she had no such role model herself.  

When I first meet my students, I try to remember Celia.  I wish she could have only worried about her hair, school, and sport practices, instead of midnight feedings and finishing high school. I wish she had the support that I took for granted from my parents.  I learned that I must remember that each student has a story and often experience hardships that I do not know about.  If I judge just by the outward appearance, I am often so very wrong.  The narrative I  assign at the beginning of the school year gives me a glimpse into the lives of my students if they wish to share.  But, that involves being vulnerable, which I need to first model.  Also, I cannot know that story until and if I get to know that child.  Not what I have heard about that student.  Not what a stereotype tells me of a student.    Not what a statistic says.  Thank you, Celia.