Matching Tracksuits

A traumatized kid enrolls in our school, and only weeks later, he's gone, entangled in the court system with all the fatalism and unfulfilled dreams that that entails for a fourteen-year-old black boy. 

That sentence itself is a tangle of contradictions and enigmas. "A traumatized kid enrolls" suggests that the kid made the decision, completed the paperwork, and entered our school community. Or it implies a parent made the decision to enroll him in our school and completed the requisite paperwork to enroll. In this child's case, neither is likely: the kid, of course, is a minor and couldn't do it; the parent (and statistically likely only one, and most statistically likely only the mother) seems from all accounts to be relatively uninvolved. 

“Only weeks later, he’s gone” suggests more volition that he likely lacked. It implies that he just didn’t like it — wasn’t challenged or felt the dress code too stifling. In truth, he was taken away, with all the ambiguity that passive-voice sentence suggests. More accurate from our perspective is simple: “only weeks later, he disappears.” That still suggests he is in some sense a agent in the decision, and while his behavior certainly played a role in it all, that behavior was likely not entirely consciously volitional and at least in part the crusted-over habit of years of surviving a trauma-filled life no kid should endure.

When I first met him, he was respectful, demure even: "I don't like saying I came from West Greenville," he quietly began when we first met, referring to one of the district's alternative schools, "because they think I'm a bad kid."

"Well, we all make mistakes in life," I reassured him. "I'm sure no one will judge you on where you came from but rather on your behavior."

Yet his record suggested he was what quick judgment would label a "bad kid." He came to us from alternative school, and as teachers reviewed his records, we saw that he had been in not one but two different alternative schools that year. A kid who makes a single bad decision that lands him in alternative school -- say, bringing a vape to school -- would not have such a record.

Still, he knew how to play the game: he knew first impressions count, and he made a good one. Once he got into class, though, it was another story. Passive incorrigibility and even the occasional aggressive defiance became the norm. Once, in the hallway when I was trying to direct him where he needed to go, he shouted, "Man, this is why I hate white people."

Over a few weeks, I'd managed to establish a decent relationship outside of class, though, and that helped inside the class. He began applying himself just a bit, here and there, occasionally. But much like an abused dog will bear its teeth at any perceived threat or provocation, KB’s interactions continually belied that demure front he’d put on at the start of his time with us. 

“Who’s that kid?” A teacher on another team asked as KB passed by. I told her, and she replied, “He’s really something.” Soon, everyone on the hall knew who he was, and not because of the sterling impression he was making on everyone. 

Occasionally he would be absent and return to school a few days later explaining he’d had a court appearance. “For days?” I’d think, but I kept my doubts to myself. 

There are kids teachers encounter that we know will disappear into the vast cracks in our system and appear on the evening news as a suspect in some crime or other (one former student), or perhaps as a fatality after a police chase involving a stolen car (another former student). We all pay for these kids: our tax dollars will support them in one form or another. But they pay for it as well with lost and wasted lives that represent a net negative on our society, indicting us all: that’s the true price we pay.

Every now and then, a student will challenge me to a chess game with much braggadocio and bravado.

"I'm going to beat you so bad, Mr. Scott!" comes the claim. "You don't stand a chance."

My response is usually simple: "Perhaps." There are plenty of thirteen-year-old chess players in the world (probably in the county) who could, indeed, thrash me. When facing an opponent for the first time, I prefer humility. Usually.

What I was thinking, though, was anything but humble: "Perhaps. But remember, young one, I have worked with you for quite some time now. I know how you think. I know your critical thinking abilities. I know how much patience you have (or in this case, don't have). I know how easily (or not) you make connections between seemingly disparate passages of the text. I know how well you infer. Very strong chess players do all these things better than the average person; you do most of these at about an average (or even below average) level. Also, to beat me, you'll need to know chess theory better than I do, which requires study and focus -- two things you don't always excel at. Therefore, taking all of this into consideration, it's highly unlikely that you will beat me."

Now, thinking all these things, I often just play along with the trash talk: "Buddy, I'm going to kick you so hard your grandmother is going to feel it." The most brutal trash talk I do is when, after a couple of moves, I just give the player my queen. "I won't be needing that." Among those who have a basic understanding of chess, this always elicits hoots and laughs. One student might run over to someone not watching the game and recount excitedly what I just did.

I thought about that today as students in my last period class struggled mightily with making claims for an argumentative writing assignment with which we're concluding the semester. I thought I'd set everything up perfectly for them to see some connections that would lead to good claims. We were annotating the text for things illustrating the narrator's family's poverty and the acts of kindness they perform and in turn receive. I made sure students saw two passages:

• We were one of the last families to leave because Papa felt obligated to stay until the rancher’s cotton had all been picked, even though other farmers had better crops. Papa thought it was the right thing to do; after all, the rancher had let us live in his cabin free while we worked for him.
• She made up a story and told the butcher the bones were for the dog. The butcher must have known the bones were for us and not for the dog because he left more and more pieces of meat on the bones each time Mama went back.

Here we have two acts of kindness that directly contribute to the family's survival. Yet none of the students could make the connections and inferences necessary to come up with a simple claim about this: "The family receives basic needs from the actions of others."

The co-teacher in the class, seeing the same problem, started searching online for some sentence stems to help them with their claims. When working with struggling students, sentence stems (also known as frames) help students orient their thinking and direct their writing.

"Since claims can be so varied," I told her, "I doubt you'll find much." She's a great special education teacher and a real advocate for all students: she didn't give up. Still, she found nothing.

"I just don't know how to teach these kids such basic critical thinking skills," I said. I've tried logic puzzles and similar ideas, but I'm just not good at that. I feel that's teaching skills (inferring, categorizing, comparing/contrasting) that most kids have learned years ago. It's something an elementary teacher would be trained to teach. Not someone who studied secondary education.

It's from classes like this that the "I'm going to beat you badly!" chess claims emerge. One such kid kept bragging while I set up pieces, and he put his class materials away. He sat down across from me and said, "Okay, so how do you play this game?"

They're tough classes at times, filled with a mix of students with mixed motivations and mixed ability levels. And all of this manifests itself in students' behavior: several students are focused and hardworking while a few are determined to gain attention by any means necessary, with the vast majority simply there, engaged sometimes, bored and checked out others.

But there's one activity that always gets good results: Socratic Seminars.

If I could have these on a biweekly basis, I think I could have a serious motivator for the students. So why don't I do it? That's a very good question, indeed. I shall be working them into plans one way or another on a much more regular basis based on how well students engaged in their first seminar of the year.

And I haven't even done one with my honors students yet...

We have an epidemic of NHIs in the eighth grade. NHI is the code we enter for a graded assignment the student failed to turn in. Not Handed In.

I had a talk with my classes about the issue. On Thursday, I had students in each class guess the number of NHIs in their class for English. There were three options:

• Fewer than 15
• Between 15 and 25
• More than 25

The two English I classes were certain they had between 15 and 25 per class. The two English 8 classes were certain they had fewer than 15.

The results for all classes were the exact opposite of what they expected.

The English 8 students refer to the English I (high school English) classes as "the smart kids' class."

"They're not the smart kids class," I always reply, but Friday, when I revealed the results, I added, "They're simply the do-the-work kids class."

I was so excited about how well things went with my toughest class yesterday: we did such good and focused work, though, that I should have expected today. Frustrating all around.

During the bell ringer, when we were going over some of their work, trying to get a student to say that the highest value on the Y axis of a graph (we're reading a cross-curricular text about deception in graphing) was 70. Even when I pointed to it. Even when I said, "The first number is seven." Even when I added, "The second number is zero." Even when I said "70." Even when I said, "Say '70.'"

Later in the lesson, when we were going over how to do something, I did the first half of the work for them -- for all intents and purposes -- in the name of modeling, even though we should be past modeling now. Be all that as it may, some of the kids didn't even make use of the modeling -- and really all they had to do is copy what we came up with as a class.

Every class has tough days, I guess. But they're even tougher when the happen on the heels of a great day.

I tried something today, sort of spur of the moment, with one of my more struggling classes. It's filled with impulsive students who are generally very sweet (at least toward me) but can be very chatty. Very focused on other things than the work at hand. So before we started our main part of the day's lesson, I had the kids do a little mindfulness work.

"Close your eyes," I told them.

"Did they trust you enough to close their eyes?" my principal asked when I was telling him about the experience later in the day.

"Yes, they did," I replied, thinking of what his question suggested about the relationship I have with the kids already.

"Close your eyes," I said, a few times. There were some stragglers. Some were still focused on something else. "Just close your eyes and breath slowly for a moment." I led them through some slow breathing, then had them visualize the work we were about to do, seeing themselves working in a focused manner and meeting success instead of frustration.

They opened their eyes, we began the main part of today's lesson, and they had the most successful day we've had so far.