As I stepped into my sixth-grade homeroom on the first day of school, I thought nothing could go wrong. I had the grades, the connections, and the confidence. “Welcome to sixth-grade!” Ms. Chan—a middle-aged Asian woman and my next homeroom leader, personal advisor, and English teacher—said at the door with a buoyant expression and genuine smile. Ms. Chan was seemingly bubbling with excitement, and the room, in my mind, transformed from the chaotic mess it had been just seconds before to a peaceful garden. But then I  glimpsed a part of Ms. Chan that I hadn’t yet: her eyes. They held the look of a clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball, meticulously examining every minute detail of my face. Her eyes were glassy and unreadable, and it seemed like an eternity passed before she tore her burning gaze away from me. A pulse passed through my entire body -- a combination of confusion, insecurity, and fear. Ms. Chan seemed omniscient. What did she want to expose? 

I had grown up in a small town in northern New Jersey. Throughout my childhood, it was hard for the shy, introverted me to find people that I could connect with. In third grade, as I sat around a table with my stone-faced parents, I realized that it was time for a change. In 5th grade, I transferred from my local public school to a nearby private school, The Peck School, which was ultimately where I would meet Ms. Chan. It was as if I became a completely different person. Instead of the apathetic, lackluster culture of my local public school, Peck held an intense, energetic atmosphere of excitement and raw opportunity. With this familial culture came a new sense of confidence and social strength. The former introverted aspects of my personality began to fade away. I connected with everyone I met, from new teachers to new classmates. 

But my new sense of confidence came at a hidden cost. By sixth grade, I had transformed into another person: the kind who forgets their dreams, their origins, and their path in life. My personal, academic, and athletic drive withered. Hard work wasn’t for the pursuit of my passions anymore; instead, it was the foundation for the satisfaction of the adults in my life. Although my brief exchange with Ms. Chan somewhat woke me up, I continued into sixth grade with all of my previous habits. This was the life. It only took some close friends, easy classes, and early success to tremendously boost my already-inflated aura of confidence. 

But by November, I had managed to be sent out of class five times, a staggering number for anyone, including myself. Additionally, I had been caught several times playing games on my school computer during classwork periods. However, the biggest blow came only a few weeks later, when I completely forgot to study for an important Biology midterm. That was the first and only time that I have ever cheated. 

The look that Ms. Chan gave me the first time she sat down with me to discuss my recent behavior wasn’t one of anger, frustration, or even disappointment, the typical emotions one may find in a teacher after they realize one of their students has done something wrong. Although Ms. Chan was physically looking up at me, her eyes seemingly looked down upon me in a menacing yet sad way.  This was pity, perhaps even complemented with a touch of satisfaction. 

Nervous beads of sweat began to inch their way down my forehead. I hastily used my left hand, which until that moment had been clutching the cold, metal leg of the chair, to swipe the sweat off of my face. A slight smile flickered across Ms. Chan’s face, almost as if she expected my nervousness. As I attempted to return back to my original position, the chair skidded across the polished tile floor, making a terrible squeak. This caused me to sweat even more. Finally, with a purposeful sigh, Ms. Chan began, “So, Jonathan, I am here to discuss with you your performance over the past few weeks here at Peck.” At this point, I gave up my bare hope of a positive conversation with Ms. Chan. I quickly formulated dozens upon dozens of excuses ranging from unfair treatment by my teachers to a sudden decrease in time. “You know that you have been repeatedly sent out of class, reported on by teachers, and even cheated?” Ms. Chan asked. Before I could mumble out a timid, “Yes...” Ms. Chan had already continued onto the next portion of her tirade. “Jonathan, I know the kind of student you are and this is not like you. Last year, you were the example, the role model for your peers. What are you now? You have a younger brother; I wonder what he would think about your actions? You are only hurting yourself, your image, your own future, by doing what you are doing now.” As she spoke, all of my excuses disappeared. An overwhelming sense of painful shame and guilt washed through my system, acting as a mental version of lactic acid. 

However, alongside those feelings of shame and guilt came a slight sense of confusion. Wasn’t it supposed to be that when one’s actions begin to negatively impact others, advisors get involved? Ms. Chan had consistently stated that I hadn’t hurt my peers, other than falling out of the “role model” spotlight. “You are only hurting yourself,” she had said. I had never before had an advisor who truly cared enough to perform detailed examinations of my performance outside of their own class. 

As I trudged towards the athletic center after my meeting with Ms. Chan, I began to realize the weight of her words. She clearly held an intense set of expectations that far surpassed the ones that I had in mind. She cared about my actions, goals, and success. 

Our meetings continued throughout the year. Whether it was after recess or before class, Ms. Chan would quickly pull me aside to check in with me. Over the next few months, I began to revert back to my old ways, the perfect academic, the teacher’s pet, the moral officer, all of the components that make up an ideal student. But the change felt superficial and familiar -- just like the previous year, I was doing it for a teacher rather than for myself. It wasn’t so much my own desire to change but her desire for me to change that initiated my shift in attitude, mindset, and work ethic. But no matter how much my performance improved, Ms. Chan didn’t slow down one bit. No tiny mistake or silly action escaped her omniscient watch. As I began to feel the effects of Ms. Chan’s high standards, a sense of irritation and confusion began to supplant my motivation to change. To me, Ms. Chan had begun to seize control of our relationship, gradually shifting everything to her own side. Those same meetings that had given me such intense feelings of change and growth transformed into meetings of dull necessity and tedium. Eventually, my feelings erupted into an intense swell of anger, hate, and pure disdain. By the end of the year, I’d lost any willingness I’d had to cooperate with her expectations. I forgot about everything else. It was competition on the most basic level. Me against her. That was how the year ended: a stalemate. 

I started seventh grade reinvigorated, free of any ‘nagging’ teachers in my way. Ms. Chan was no longer my advisor, and there was no obligation for me to even talk to her anymore. She didn’t meet with me at the beginning of seventh grade, and so I quickly lost any lingering fear that she would attempt to reignite our meetings. 

But, only two months in, my Latin teacher and advisor sat me down to discuss some problems that had arisen. He suspected that I was beginning to become apathetic and that I wasn’t achieving my full potential. In some ways, it all made sense—each of those observations rang a bell in my head. But in other ways, it made no sense at all. I was getting an A in his class, wasn’t I? I tried to express this but to no avail. Our conversation was in vain, with growing discontentment on each side. But then, in came Ms. Chan.

With a quick nod of recognition towards my now fuming Latin teacher, she hastily pulled me outside and gave me a talking-to that still shocks me. She began by describing her past as a student, growing up in a community that didn’t suit her, and in a school that didn’t truly love her. “I had nobody, Jonathan. My family, friends, and teachers, they were all fake. I couldn’t talk to anyone, even if I wanted to,” Ms. Chan said. As I had the first time she sat me down for a talking-to, I began to sweat. It’s not every day that a teacher begins to share their personal backstory with a student. But, Ms. Chan continued, she had played a role as well: “I should have done more, said more, been more. Even though there was really nobody for me to go to, I didn’t help my own case by staying silent.” She explained her inability to talk to her teachers, to speak up and raise her voice in a place where although there were very few people to go to, there was still room for help, if only one asked. 

In a tone dominated by frustration but also infused with calm, Ms. Chan meticulously deconstructed my problems. “Jonathan, I know that you are a tremendous student with enormous potential. You are a leader for your peers. However, for these past months, you have done so many uncharacteristic actions. The funny thing is, I don’t think you’ve actually changed. You simply have this one problem that has just recently appeared: an inability to speak up. You keep everything to yourself, and that works most of the time. But, when larger, more pressurized events come around in your life, that strategy will not work. And that is what has happened with you this past year. You have lost control of yourself, and your strategy has consistently failed you in your decision-making.” She attacked not only the superficial problems but also the deeper ones that I had kept internal, hidden. All of my problems stemmed from one overarching trait: the inability to speak up and ask for help. 

And that was when it all came together. Ms. Chan had been a nagging teacher. She had repeatedly talked to me about trivial matters, problems that had little to no effect on anyone but myself. She was no longer my advisor; there wasn’t an obligation to continue helping me. She could have stopped. But, she didn’t. Because her nagging had one goal: my success. 

Since then, Ms. Chan has become one of my closest mentors, offering help and advice whenever I need it. She’s still nagging, but it’s a good kind of nagging now if that makes sense. My sixth-grade antics are gone now, replaced with a renewed sense of maturity and composure. I finished the seventh and eighth grade with the same grades that I had already been achieving, but this time, they were significantly more well-rounded grades. I was not only paying attention in class, but also participating more, completing extra work, and tutoring some of my peers. I speak out more now, communicating more clearly to both my peers and teachers, which in turn has improved my relationships. I’ve grown in all facets of my life, whether that be academics, athletics, or music, all due to this overarching, invaluable social skill. 

The day before middle school graduation, we ran through the entirety of the ceremony. I was next in line, preparing to go up to the stage and receive my diploma. As I began to slowly and meticulously walk up to the speaker’s podium, as we had all been instructed to do, I saw the row of teachers and faculty that I had to shake hands as I received my diploma. After taking my diploma from the head of school, I faced the group of people that had brought me up over the years. I shook hands with the 5th-grade advisor that had helped me transition into a new environment, the 8th-grade counselor that had given me so much advice on applying to secondary school, my 7th grade Latin teacher, and then, finally, Ms. Chan herself. As I shook her hand and looked her straight in the eye, I saw those same glassy, unreadable eyes that had greeted me on that first day of school in 6th grade. However, there was a difference. Behind those eyes wasn’t uncertainty or ambiguity. There was a clear sense of understanding: mutual respect.