麻豆传媒高清

鈥淐losing the Gap鈥�

By Arjun Krishna

If I went back in time to second-grade me, who had just won his class’s math award. I would tell him that school wasn't going to be as easy as rattling off our multiplication table.

In every classroom, there are students who seem to be set up perfectly to succeed, and others who get quietly left behind. Growing up in these classes, you start to notice a divide. It's not from anything teachers say directly, but from small, everyday things: who finishes their work fast, who needs more help, who gets praise, and who gets left out. For the students who fall behind, this split turns into discouragement, and many people start to feel that they have a problem themselves, rather than the support they need. These early gaps turn into bigger problems. Each new grade comes with harder material, faster pacing, and sky-high expectations. This makes it much more difficult for underprepared students to catch up. What starts as a small disadvantage soon sprouts into a student’s entire school experience. Over time, it became clear that students who are “educationally unprepared” aren’t struggling due to a lack of ability; they’re struggling because these students were never given the same academic opportunities, tools, guidance, or early support as their more prepared classmates. This school experience becomes less about overachieving and more about having to catch up on their own.

Mike Rose is able to capture this flawlessly in Lives on the Boundary. In his book, he reflects on his own confusions in school; one example is the misplacement that put him in a lower-level class, and how he was expected to stay behind. In the book, he also began to notice the educational gaps around him; he began to see students who were encouraged, students who were doubted, and students who were overlooked. Rose was also struggling with personal experiences outside of school. But what saved his academic career multiple times where there was a teacher or professor who was there to help him. These teachers and professors refused to let him disappear; they saw his potential when the schooling system didn’t and supported him with guidance, higher expectations, and genuine encouragement. His story shows that his struggles were uncommon. They reflect a larger pattern of students being mislabeled or underestimated. In all, Rose’s journey shows that opportunity and support, not ability, often determine how far a student can go.

As I look back on my own education, from elementary through my sophomore year of high school, I can clearly see how my relationship with school changed in a way which I didn't fully understand at the time.

Growing up, middle school was a breeze: show up, listen to the rules, do your work. Middle school was easy for me, but it wasn't my focus as a kid with too much energy. I remember I would get put in higher-level English and math classes, which made me feel proud of myself, yet a little nervous for what's coming. But by the end of the week, I'd be back to normal middle-level classes. In my English class, I would often ask my teacher on ways I can improve my nonfiction story and even get some praise on my details. It felt good being in a higher-level class, and with that came a better teacher. The way I was getting used as an example for other students to learn off of me made me feel like I actually belonged there. I thought this experience was going to stick around, but as soon as I arrived, I got sent back to my regular level English class. Going back to my regular English class was crushing, I was discouraged to be back in a regular, leveled English class where everything being said was basically common sense.

My experience with math was as difficult, if not more challenging, than my experience with English. When I moved up in my math class, my current math teacher and the one teacher the level above me came up to me and told me I was going to be put in the highest-level class, from my middle-level class. This happened out of nowhere, so I was shocked, but also proud of myself for this big accomplishment to brag to my friends about. I walked into this class, and it was filled with a handful of students and some of my friends at the time. I waved to some of my friends, and they were happy to see me and waved back. Everyone was so quiet, you could probably hear my heart start racing trying to keep it together. It was an honor to me at the time to be with these kids in my grade who were known to be some of the smartest kids. As I walked to the back of the class, since it was an open seat for the incoming student. I noticed all these kids were dialed in with their own notes and little cheat sheets the teacher gave them. I had a hard time getting a grasp of what was happening. I stared at the board, looking confused at my teacher explaining variables and graphing, ideas, and concepts we haven't reached yet in my previous class. Not only was I confused by the gibberish my teacher was shouting across the class, I was also confused and wondering why the pacing of these was so different and why no one explained the gap when they told me I was going to be put in the higher class. This made me realize how easy it is to fall behind when you're expected to adjust on the go.

I graduated from middle school during the coronavirus lockdown, having the label of an above-average student. I was proud of what I was able to do at the time, but all the back and forth between class levels left me worried of what to expect next. By the time I graduated behind a computer screen, all of these experiences blended into a mix of excitement and skepticism about how high school was going to treat me. I wanted a new start, but I couldn't brush off the feeling that I might get put into a situation where I had to adapt to a new change while everyone else knew what was happening. This stayed with me and set the stage for what I would notice next.

In a similar way, my middle school journey ended, my freshman year of high school started by opening my school-issued Chromebook and signing into my Zoom classes. I would wake up at 8 in the morning in my pitch-black room and barely pay attention to my AVID class, which was a class to help first-generation students on their path to college. My second-period class would mostly be taken over by whatever was more interesting on my phone. By 10, I would have been beginning to move my Chromebook to our house's office space. Our office was filled with random books and various files, as well as 2 computers on our desk. One desk was used for everyday use, and the other had a non-stop visual of the security cameras placed around our house. The only reason I would move here was because the next class I had was freshman strength and conditioning. This class was taught by a meathead of a football coach. In this class, we would have to work out in front of our Chromebook, and if we weren't pushing ourselves, the heart rate monitors around our chest would be displayed to our teacher, who wouldn't be afraid to yell at people through the Zoom call. My final class of the day would be English, which was a basic “read this and answer these questions” type of class. It felt pointless having to do homework like this. Online school made high school feel fake, but it also showed how underprepared I was. Without teachers, when I was confused or slipped behind, the gaps I had from middle school became harder to ignore. Halfway through my second semester of freshman year, we had the opportunity to go back to school in person. Looking back, I should've gone back in person since I wasn't doing good with my grades with virtual learning. But something in my head chose to stay remote, even though it was ruining my grades; I was comfortable having to not go back in person and try again in school.

As I entered my sophomore year, I started to feel the same split that Mike Rose talked about, but now I was put into his shoes. My freshman year being online had hurt me and other students more than I wanted to admit. I had gotten used to turning my camera off, zoning out on my phone, and pretending to understand what my teacher was explaining. So when we finally went back in person, my pitch-black room turned into a classroom with all the lights on, and it was easy to see that I was struggling school-wise. Sitting in my sophomore year classrooms, I knew I was behind, and I didn't know how I would catch up. I noticed other students were struggling too. Even some of the smarter kids who used to have every answer were all of a sudden confused by simple lessons or staring at our teacher’s class notes like they were written in a different language. And while a part of me felt relieved I wasn't the only student rebuilding how to live through school, the other part of me felt even more overwhelmed. Seeing everyone else struggle didn't make me feel better; it made me realize how far behind we all were, and I wasn't sure how to climb out of this hole. While some students seemed to adjust quickly, turning in every assignment, understanding the material the moment it was taught. I felt heavier and slower every week. I kept trying to act like things were normal, like school wasn't becoming more challenging for me every year. Somewhere in all of this, my attitude shifted. Feeling lost started to become normal to me, something I slowly accepted instead of fighting against. It felt like my high school had split into two groups over some time: the students who were able to keep up during online learning, and the students, like myself, who were trying to piece ourselves together. Being on the wrong side of the split made me think more about myself, not just as a student, but as a person who had to figure out how to keep going even when everything around me felt patchy.

My new attitude towards school was tested at the beginning of my junior year. Algebra II, a subject I already wasn't head over heels for, just became that much harder with a teacher who had no remorse for students who were struggling. I soon realized that my new teacher had no patience, flexibility, and a lack of understanding for students like myself were still recovering from. Throughout the weeks, the lessons felt like they were going faster and faster, and my teacher wasn't planning on slowing down. Sitting at my desk, I felt that same feeling of fear I used to get in middle school after being thrown into the higher-level classes without any warning. But unlike middle school, I wasn't excited or proud of myself; I was feeling the opposite. Everyone around me seemed tense, too. Kids who used to breeze through math were asking each other for clarity and seemed to understand just to keep up. And our teacher acted like this struggle was a personal failure, not the result of what we had missed in the past. My experience in that class felt like a constant sprint without any warmup. I barely had any notes; I didn't dare to raise my hand to ask one of the numerous questions I had. Part of it was embarrassment, another was having the deep feeling that even asking wasn't going to matter since my teacher would shut down anyone asking questions that had any part of people being behind.

This Algebra II class was the tipping point for me and school. During finals week, my algebra grade was so bad that every step towards my class felt more sluggish than the last. I remember waiting in the bathroom a couple of minutes after the bell rang, walking through the empty hall with my chest feeling like it was going to explode. I kept telling myself that I should just walk in and try my best, but as I got closer to the door, all the thoughts I had leading up from the beginning of the semester hit me. I should’ve tried harder. Why don't I get this by now? A part of me kept telling myself to just walk in, take the test like I'm supposed to. And there was the younger me, the same kid who had won awards for math as a kid, telling me how upset he’d be if I didn't go. But what I felt more was the feeling of me being exhausted, unprepared, and sick of being lost. By the time I reached the doorway, instead of stopping, I walked right past the classroom, keeping my head looking straight. At the moment, I didn't care about the consequences that I'd have to retake this class; all I cared about was escaping a situation that had pushed me out of my comfort zone and pushed me past my limit.

Walking away from my algebra final was the lowest point of my school experience. Not only did I fail the class, I realized that I had drifted from the student who used to win awards, get praise for his work, and have his skills acknowledged. For a while during that winter break, I had thoughts that the rest of high school would fall apart the same way. But instead of letting me fade away, someone stepped in at a time when I didn't know how to ask for help.

After failing my algebra II class in the first semester of my junior year, I thought the rest of high school was also going to end up like this. But I had a teacher who was a major turning point for me. My AVID teacher, Mrs.Kannokada, was someone who noticed that I was struggling and helped me change for the better. AVID started as a group realizing there was an achievement gap in regards to getting into honors and advanced placement classes, helping students go past their barriers, and supporting first-generation students like me. The class was specifically designed to prepare students for the next chapter of school: college. I first met Mrs.Kannokada in eighth grade, when I was being interviewed by her and another teacher in the program. I got to know her more during my sophomore and junior years, as she was my AVID teacher during those years. I may not have known it while I was getting interviewed all those years ago, but Mrs.Kannokada would be a big reason for turning me into the best version of myself as a student. I was sitting in my AVID class next to my friends, the class was loud as we were talking about what they did over winter break, when Mrs.Kannokada came up to me. She walked over to the tall tables by the side of our classroom and told me she heard about my poor performance in algebra and offered some help. Since she used to be an algebra II teacher, she told me she could help with relearning the math I spent last semester having all the confusion with. She also said she could recommend me to a different teacher that I could retake the class with. I remember feeling like the weight on my shoulders suddenly got a lot more manageable. I thought to myself, maybe, just maybe, I could turn things around with this new opportunity.

By that same week, I was being excused from my second-period study hall to go to Mrs. Kannokada's office to relearn everything that felt so difficult just a semester ago. I would write down a handful of equations on her whiteboard, and we would go through them. Whenever I was confused on a part, Mrs.K wouldn't brush off a question I had or left me feeling stuck on my own. Her office was calm and welcoming compared to the tension of any classroom. As I got the hang of each question, she would make up her own and make sure I knew how to do it fully, just to make sure I wasn't nodding along the whole time. I wasn't being rushed, judged, or being expected to know what I had missed; she helped me rebuild. As I kept going to her office to improve my skills, I could feel myself growing as a student again. For the first time in months, algebra II didn't feel like a wall I was too short to climb. With her help, it became something I could jump over. Throughout my second semester, I kept going to Mrs. K’s office. I would go to get work done, to challenge myself with harder problems, figure out where I kept getting stuck, and push myself past the point where the old me would’ve normally given up. Her office became part of my routine: a quiet space where I could stay organized, focus without distractions, and made sure I knew more than before. Little by little, those mornings stopped feeling like extra help and started feeling like progress. The more time I spent there, the more I realized I wasn't just catching up on algebra; I was rebuilding my old habits, my confidence that I was able to do well in school again. Mrs. Kannokada didn't just help me understand material; she helped me understand myself as a student.

I took this old but new version of myself through the rest of my junior and senior year. During that time, I faced challenges that would’ve shut me down before: late-night study sessions after morning and afternoon soccer practices, catching up on any assignments I missed, and learning how to ask for help instead of acting like I was too good for it. Even with all of this, I managed to pass all my classes while being a starter on our school's soccer team, which ranked fifth in the state for 3A high schools. As I kept pushing myself, people around me started to notice the difference. Teachers who once saw me as distracted and not paying attention began to notice my effort, and my classmates began to rely on me more during group work. One class that really opened my view on learning was taking AP Psychology my senior year. When I first started high school, I didn't think I was going to take any advanced classes. But learning about how people think, learn, and change helped me understand myself and my own growth, and succeeding in a class I once thought was “too hard” proved that I was capable of more than I believed.

Looking back on everything, from the early moments where I was fighting to keep a spot at the top, to the pandemic year that widened every gap I already had, to the day I chose to walk past my algebra final. I’ve been able to finally see what I hadn't before: none of this was ever about a lack of ability. Like Mike Rose, I didn't struggle because I didn't have the skills; I struggled because school changed faster than I could keep up at the time, and I didn't have a good support system to bridge the gap. The pandemic didn't just move school onto a screen; it changed the pace, expectations, and the way students learned. What mattered for me the most wasn't the shift itself, but having someone see my potential when I couldn't stand back up.

When I talked to Mrs.Kannokada for my interview, I realized her impact on me wasn't accidental; it came from years of her own experiences being shaped by teachers who believed in her. She told me about the law teacher who brought in guest speakers, the elementary teacher whose in-class trip to Australia inspired her to study abroad there, and the college professor who saw her strengths in her before she saw them in herself. Those experiences pushed her to leave her original plan of becoming a lawyer and become a teacher instead, first in elementary school, then in secondary math, eventually building up the AVID program at our school so students like me wouldn't fall through the cracks. Hearing her story made me wonder how different my own path might have been if the kind of support she fights for today had been available for me earlier. Back in middle school, what if someone had explained the gap instead of expecting me to adapt in silence? What if the pandemic didn't open those gaps even farther? And what if schools were built to support students who learn differently, like needing more time or more guidance, instead of being forced into the same schedule?

What sticks with me now isn't regret, it’s understanding. My story didn't end abruptly the day I walked past my algebra final. It changed direction. And that change happened because someone noticed I was falling when I didn't know how to say it myself. Mrs.Kannokada's belief in me didn't just help me pass algebra: it helped me rebuild the habits, confidence, and identity I thought I didn't have anymore. She reminded me that personal connections matter more than any test score, and the right support at the right time can change the trajectory of a student’s life. The biggest thing I’ve learned from this is that someone can help you grow. Every student deserves someone who pushes, guides, and believes in them. I learned that I'm capable of more than the darkest parts of my academic journey made me think. Most importantly, I learned that falling behind isn't the end of the story; it’s the moment right before someone steps in and helps you back on the right track.