Think about a student or a person who, when you remember them, makes you smile instantly. Someone whose presence fills you with joy, someone you wish you could see again, even for just a moment, just to hear them speak or see them smile. For me, it’s that student who always asked unexpected questions.
“Mr. Elves, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Is this your real hair?”
“How old are you?”

To me, this student was a symbol of joy. To other teachers, a symbol of hard work. While some struggled to find the best way to support them, I found myself enjoying every lesson, excited to see them in class. Of course, like any relationship, we had our difficult moments like the time the student pushed my hair and ran off without permission. But now, as I write this, I even miss that.

Before I dive into this story, I want to share a valuable lesson I learned from this experience. It’s fascinating how teachers can have completely different perceptions of the same student. When teachers gather to discuss students, I often find myself asking, “Are we talking about the same person?” The same happens among students. I remember a conversation in my homeroom where they were arguing about a teacher—one said, “He’s too strict,” while others insisted, “No, he’s fun and relaxed.”

Once upon a time, one of my students traveled and missed the last few lessons of our movement composition unit, The Greatest Show, which blended jump rope, juggling, and gymnastics. They returned just a week before our final performance and had only two lessons to prepare. Understandably, none of the groups wanted to take them in, fearing they wouldn’t have enough time to adjust before the show.

This student is dealing with autism. Their psycho-educational evaluation described communication barriers, difficulty engaging in reciprocal conversations, and a tendency to ask unrelated questions. They also had a fixation on touching people’s hair or hats without permission and often struggled with personal space. However, the information I had also highlighted their strengths positivity, perseverance, strong organizational skills, and a willingness to collaborate.

Given the limited time, it was unrealistic to expect the student to learn the full routine and perform at the same level as their peers. So, I had to find a solution, one that wouldn’t add stress to the other groups. My idea? A duet. Just me and the student.

The first challenge was convincing them.
“Let’s create a performance together.”
“No, I want to be in a group.”
“Let’s try. Just us.”
“Why me?”

Eventually, they agreed. I decided to start with the most challenging part, jump rope. We shared a single rope, planning the routine as we went along. By the end of the first lesson, we had something solid. The reaction from the class claps, cheers, surprised faces told us we were onto something special. The next lesson, we refined the routine, adding details to make it even better for the Celebration of Learning, where parents would come to watch.

When the day of the performance arrived, I was more excited than the student. I wasn’t sure why, but I had a feeling it would go well. For them, it wasn’t about grades or assessment; it was about belonging, about being part of something.

Our routine began with a dramatic entrance, running to the center of the stage, grabbing hands, and then letting go as the student disappeared behind me, only to jump onto my back. The audience erupted in applause. We shared a rope, taking turns making each other jump. We moved on to juggling, passing three plastic bags between us, drawing even more surprised reactions from the crowd. The student was having fun, their face glowing with joy. Our final act involved gymnastics elements, ending with a perfectly balanced pose. We closed the show with a moment of pure happiness.

That performance became one of my all-time favorites. Whenever I watch the video, it brings me right back to that magical day.

At the time, I knew the student would be leaving the school soon. For them, it was just another lesson. For me, it was a memory in the making something to hold onto long after they were gone. The pictures and videos from that day serve as a reminder that, once upon a time, I had a student who unknowingly gifted me some of the most special moments of my career.

In international schools, saying goodbye is part of the journey. This one was harder than most. The student moved back to their home country, and though it was sad, I felt grateful for the time we had.

“Why me?”

I don’t know. Maybe no one does. But I’m glad it was.