In grade 11, English wasn’t going well for me. I wasn’t keeping up, and I knew it. But it wasn’t until Mr. Standard pulled me aside that it really hit home.
His office was in one of those outdoor Atco trailers, the kind that always smelled stale from a complete lack of airflow. It didn’t matter what season it was—inside, the air just sat there, thick and unmoving, like it had given up trying to circulate.
I stood in front of his desk while he leaned back in his chair, looking at me over his glasses. “Craig,” he said in that heavy South African accent of his, “you aren’t doing well in this course. You are failing.” No sugarcoating. Just the facts.
Then he tilted his head and asked, “You are involved in band and sports here, correct?”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I nodded. “Yeah.”
He just sat there, waiting. Letting the weight of his words sink in. And in that moment, I realized—this wasn’t just about English.
“Because you are involved in all of this,” he said, gesturing vaguely, as if “all of this” covered band, sports, and whatever else he thought I was up to, “how about we bump you up to a C-minus, and you finish the rest of the work for the year?”
I blinked. That was it? A lifeline, just like that? I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of test or if he just didn’t want to see me tank completely. Either way, I wasn’t about to argue.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “That works.”
He nodded, as if the deal was sealed, then leaned back again, the springs in his chair groaning under the shift. “Good,” he said.
He tossed me a bone, and I grabbed it. A C-minus was a whole lot better than failing, and all I had to do was finish the rest of the work for the year. It wasn’t exactly a free pass, but it was close enough.
No lecture, no drawn-out discussion—just a quiet understanding between a struggling student and a teacher who, for whatever reason, decided to give him a break. I walked out of that stale little trailer knowing I had a shot. Now, I just had to take it.