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As dean of students, I’m sitting at my desk passing time one morning when my radio crackles. “There was just a fight in the courtyard,” says a teacher. “I’m bringing both of the students in right now.” I sigh in frustration and turn to watch the security-camera footage on my computer. Sure enough, there are two students facing off in the courtyard. Oh no, I think. Please don’t let that be who I think it is.

I am intellectually aware of Paola’s poverty. Nine out of 10 students at our school come from families whose income level meets the federal poverty guidelines. Paola, an immigrant from El Salvador, is one of them. The first-grader lives in a small apartment with her grandma, mom, sister and uncle. Combined, the adults earn less than $26,170 a year.

I noticed a trend several years ago. A sixth-grader tagged along with me into the school. She wanted to use a computer. “My printer is broken,” she explained. “Can I come in with you and print my assignment?” A few days later, it happened again. Only this time, another student needed to edit an essay on a word-processor.

One teacher considers how to talk with students about the idea of the American Dream.

Like many of us, I sometimes overuse the word “need.” I have a tendency to say that I need the new iPhone or I need a pedicure, even though those are clearly things that I want, rather than need. My greatest lesson on distinguishing between a want and a need came with my first-grade class when I was a new teacher. Volunteers from the business community came to teach for a day through the Junior Achievement program. As a new teacher, I was overwhelmed and relieved not to be responsible for lesson plans for the day. I was nervous, however, about how an idealistic businessperson would deal with 20 extremely needy first-graders living in one of the most violent parts of Oakland, Calif.

A student pleads with me at the beginning of class to bring an electronic reader to class? “I’m almost finished reading my book and I want to finish it, but it’s on my (electronic reader name), the students says. “Please? I’m at a really good part.” At first, this appears to be every language arts teacher’s dream; students begging to continue reading things they’ve read on their own time for fun. But, then come the problems.

Some of my favorite teaching moments are when I can shut up and let students teach each other. This magic happened recently when a group of high school students from one of Chicago’s most under-resourced neighborhoods came to our university campus—just a few miles—but an entire world away.

Nearly 14 million children live in low-income or poor families in the United States. One of those was Devin. He had been in my English class during my first year teaching. His uniform was old and faded. He (like 95 percent of the school) was eligible for free or reduced lunch. He didn’t have much in the way of supplies. It was unclear if he really didn’t have the materials, or if he simply didn’t care.

A few years ago, a picture from The Roanoke Times became the fodder for emails and blog posts. It spread across the Internet in a matter of days, eventually ending up on late-night network talk shows. It began as part of a simple and obscure local news story about road construction. In the article, a pregnant woman in her 30s wondered what effect the high decibel sounds of jackhammers and earth-moving equipment would have on her unborn child. What made this conjecture so worthy of scorn and mockery?