On Ninety-second Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue lies an elementary school that changed my life. It is not the elementary school I went to nor is it one with which I have any academic history. My former workplace was a brown brick building I walked into every school day at 2:30 p.m. The dirty burgundy doormat greeted me on my first day and every day following. The school was not pleasant-looking, but hidden gems were waiting when I turned the right corner and made a left turn into the cave called the cafeteria. The children I worked with had stories that made me cry or laugh, depending on whom I asked. They were little adults with dreams, aspirations and perspectives. Working with the students at P.S. 84 taught me the role mentorship plays in the lives of children who want to be heard.

In the beginning, I worked as a third grade counselor only for the paycheck; I had no interest in reprimanding children three times in one hour. As the weeks went by, though, I began to realize my purpose for being in the presence of these children. They needed a mentor, an adult figure, someone they could aspire to be. After the first staff meeting, my perspective shifted. My supervisors would recall success stories of children that came from broken households and how their lives changed after the program. They emphasized the importance of building a relationship that would last a lifetime. I considered this the next workday.

I walked into work with a Sesame Street smile and a Dora the Explorer attitude. My adventure of the day was to find a student to talk to, and Paris stood out to me. Tall for her age, with light brown skin, she always mentioned that her mother worked at Michael Kors so she loved to show off the shoes she had received for her eighth birthday. She was a twenty-three-year old stuck in an eight-year old’s body. Her level of confidence was incredible. Paris walked like the cafeteria was her runway and the lunch table was her meeting with her crew. She fascinated me.

I started to ask probing questions such as where her parents were from and where she lived. Was her house big? Did she have any siblings? What was her pet peeve? I dedicated a lot of my time at work talking to Paris, figuring her out, and noticing the little things she did.

“I love me some Doritos,” she often told me in between crunches. She had two bags every day until the end the program.

Her nails were always painted a pretty pastel color, and she loved to watch cooking shows with her mother. Her hair was either in black box braids or in a donut bun placed perpendicular to her nose on her head. Whenever she had a crush on a little boy in the school, I was the first person she would tell because I knew how to keep her secrets. She rarely misbehaved, and if she did, it was because she was in a bad mood. Most of the time, she laughed when things weren’t funny and smiled when someone needed a smile. However, on the inside, she had a void that no adult in her life had a desire to fill.

“Paris, what are you making your dad for Father’s Day?” I asked curiously.

“My dad? My mom won’t let me speak to him. He lives in an island in the Carri-ban,” she announced.

I swallowed and simply said, “Oh.” At that moment, I did not know whether to keep probing or change the topic all together. After that conversation, I understood why her mother had given her the world and some change.

Throughout the school year, I made sure Paris had someone to talk to. I did not grow up fatherless, but my older siblings did, and the void they have is very apparent. Paris is one of many students whom I grew to understand. I cherish the times I spent talking to her about her family and her resemblance to Beyoncé.

During my second year of working at P.S. 84, with Paris still in mind, I made it my goal to get to know one other child as personally as I had known her. The administrators placed me with the third grade group again, and I soon recognized the new faces. Jacob was another child who stood out. His hair was perfectly placed on his head, every curl curled up and every stray patted down. His eyebrows were faint, but his eyelashes made up for this.

I would ask Jacob how his day had been, and he would reply, “I was bad today, like I am every day.”

I would respond, “That’s not what I asked. I want to know how Jacob feels about his day today.” I didn’t want him thinking he was a bad kid because everyone called him one; I wanted him to learn how to make wiser choices.

Long conversations with Jacob led to him telling me that he was from a broken and abusive household, so he looked for ways to find attention in school. I remember once asking what his favorite pastime was and he said building blocks. Afterwards, whenever he would disrupt the group because he couldn’t focus on his homework, I would kindly walk by and say, “Hey, you like building Jenga blocks, right?

Let’s build the answer to this problem one block at a time.” This technique worked every time and the distractions began to incrementally decrease. Learning to sit still was one small step for Jacob, and one giant leap for breaking down behavioral issues.

Successful mentorship stems from good communication and trust. Paris and Jacob looked up to me. This bestowed honor has led me to believe that mentorship is a combination of patience and willingness. These children had character flaws, but who doesn’t? I took the time to know them beyond their name and favorite color. I learned how to value their openness, which means I have completed my job beyond the numerical amount on a paycheck. The bond I created with them will influence the new decisions they make and the path they decide to lead. A mentor can transform a child’s perspective, even in the smallest ways. The most important lesson I learned in this process is to never judge a book by its cover, and never close the book after just one chapter.