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I have always considered myself a thoughtful and considerate teacher. I try to understand where my students are coming from. I want my students to feel safe and respected. Last year, one of my students taught me how even the best intentions can miss the mark.

My third-hour class was a challenge. The students were young, the class was large, and most students just needed a required fine art credit. Not great art lovers, they spent their considerable energy doing everything but their art projects.

The first International Day of the Girl, a United Nations initiative to promote gender equality around the world, was Oct. 11. When I explained the day to my extra-curricular group for girls, their responses varied. One student remarked that a day wasn’t enough, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. Another noted that it was about time someone recognized the multitude of issues that girls face. Still another asked why we needed a day at all.

During my first year as a second-grade teacher, I struggled with classroom management. I am a soft-spoken person by nature and habit. I didn't have the experience to help me set up great rules and procedures for my students. My classroom was noisy and chaotic. I think you could hear us all around the school.

More than half the students in my middle school receive special education services or some extra help for academics or behavior. We polled our student leadership to find out the biggest issues in school. They said, “Cliques.”

I hate sheet protectors. Those shiny, clear plastic sheaths have no place in my classroom. When my new ninth-graders hand in their summer reading logs each September, the first thing I do is remove and return all the sheet protectors. They make it impossible for me to maintain my neat stacks of student work. They don’t quite fit into the file folders I use to transport those stacks home to grade them. I have to remove them before I can write any feedback.

Greg arrived at my art room after school to pick up a bulky project. He seemed down. “Is everything ok?” I asked.

As a child I asked my father whether there was someone like Martin Luther King Jr. who had fought for Latino rights. “Yes,” he said, and told me that his name was César Chávez. My father, a former farmworker who had toiled in the agricultural fields from childhood until adulthood, taught me about César Chávez, Dolores Huerta and the farmworker struggle.