People sometimes ask me why I choose to stay in public
education. I started teaching because of the undeniable call on my life to do
so. I tried to run from it, and I was miserable. Even when I'm totally spent,
emotionally exhausted and mentally drained, I find joy in small spaces. And
sometimes I'm reminded that God has a plan. He likes to remind me quite often,
in fact.
I've taught advanced 8th grade and on-level 7th grade English
for three years now. I enjoy the advanced classes because I can push the kids a
little harder and most of them are just a little eccentric, like me.
But the biggest heart moments often come from those
on-level kids who are, in actuality, mostly struggling students.
August. I had a seventh-grade kiddo who started out day one this year sitting in the back of my classroom (his chosen seat) with his head on his desk. DAY ONE. I went back to check on him, thinking maybe he was having some trouble adjusting to Jr. High or something was wrong. He looked at me and said, "Miss, I hate reading." I told him I would change that. At the end of that day, I opened his file, and it read like the stereotypical script: English language learner, underachiever, low socioeconomic background, stagnant standardized test scores year-over-year… the hits just kept coming, and I started to understand why this kid hated to read.
The next day he was more bold with his declaration. He said it in a playful, defiant way so everyone in the class heard it. I looked at him with my very best serious teacher face and replied, "Game on." There were lots of “oohhhs” and “ahhhhs” from other kids, and I cracked a smile. He asked what I meant, and I told him I was going to make him my new best friend, to which he reacted about how you'd expect any 7th grade boy would, with lots of protesting and defiance: “Oh, no, no miss!”
I went about the business of breaking down his walls, all the
while remembering Dr. Olga Fischer's assertion that teaching is a subversive
act. I chipped away, removing little more than tiny pebbles from the enormous
cinderblocks that securely encased him...tink, tink, tink… I chiseled away.
Most days it felt like a losing battle. When he didn’t quite understand what we
were doing in class, he’d act out, clearly thinking the diversions he created
were better than feeling the frustration of not “getting it” again.
...tink, tink, tink…
November. We had a heart-to-heart when he received a failing
progress report in my class. I told him very plainly, and maybe with a tear or two, that I loved him and it broke my heart to see his
behavior getting in the way of his learning. "You love me, miss?"
And I told him if he didn't
straighten up, he would probably end up sitting in a different 7th grade
English teacher's class next year. And I assured him I didn’t want that for
him. He expressed his lack of belief in himself and his abilities, and I
assured him if he would put forth the effort, every teacher in that building
would help him move mountains, but we would not move them for him.
...tink, tink, tink…
January. Essay prompt: "Discuss the best
decision you've ever made." He wrote about deciding to take his grades
seriously and ask for help when he needed it. Apparently our chat came at a
time that he was struggling in several classes because he wrote an eloquent
(for him) essay with several examples of how he had chosen to work harder, and
it paid off.
...tink, tink, tink…
March. He volunteered to read a part in a play. Out loud. In
front of the whole class. Without hesitation. I chided him a bit after class,
reminding him that he doesn't like to read. He looked me in the eye,
straightened his shoulders, smiled, and walked out the door without a word.
...tink, tink, tink…
April. Our focus turned full-force from writing to reading. His
insecurities flared and his self-destructive behaviors returned. He served a
detention… or two… I didn’t let up. And neither did he, at first.
...tink, tink, tink…
May. We finally had an opportunity to read a class novel after
state testing was over. I chose a book I usually reserve for my 8th
graders, partially because they were reading it, too, and it made logistics
much easier as I switch back and forth from 7th to 8th
throughout the day. He was engrossed from day one. In a historical fiction
novel. With extremely complicated epigraphs taken from primary sources at the
beginning of every single chapter. I didn’t have to ask him to follow along as
I read. I didn’t have to encourage him to *want* to read. He missed a day of
class and was distraught that he’d missed out on important stuff from the chapters we read.
...tink, tink, tink…
The bell rang at a particularly pivotal moment:
“Oh man! Why’d the bell ring? Can I take the book home?”
...tink, tink, tink…
“Miss, you got me addicted to reading. I don’t
think it’s good when a teacher gets a kid addicted.”
...tink, tink, tink…
“Mrs. Bonner, can I take a copy of the next
book home over the summer?”
If you keep chipping away, eventually the walls come crumbling down. This is why. This is why.
