Matching Tracksuits

Dear Terrence,

Today was it. I do honestly like you all; I do honestly believe in your abilities and your intelligence; I do honestly see in you potential. But you all don’t see it in yourself, and because of that, you disrupt. Constantly. We’ve been in school three weeks now, and you’ve shown me that when given the chance to act like adults, you act like infants: you fuss about infantile things, you laugh uproariously and chaotically about infantile things; you fight over infantile things; you talk constantly about infantile things. You’ve shown me you’re just not ready to be treated like adults. What this means is that I must treat you like children. I must seem harsh in order to protect you, from yourselves and from your self-destructive habits. And so tomorrow, though I don’t really want to, I will be putting my foot down. That’s a cliche that doesn’t really adequately explain just how hard I’m going to hit you all tomorrow, so to speak. I expect to send at least ten students – that’s fully one third of you – to the assistant principal for being disruptive, because I’m going to define “disruptive” in such a harsh way that sneezing might get you sent from the room. I do this because you can’t handle the slightest amount of freedom: one off-hand comment to a peer turns into complete chaos in the class in a matter of seconds. One giggle sets ten others giggling. You are lemmings, robots – your behavior is so predictable. And so I am going to make my behavior equally predictable.

I expect to get calls from parents. I expect to see frustrated students. But I’m doing it for one reason: I will not let you screw up your own education because you find everything else in your tragic world more important.

So take a deep breath, and hope for a change in everyone else soon, because you can only change yourself, no one else. And until you do, all privileges in my classroom are indefinitely suspended. I know it sounds like I’m angry when I say this, and I am, but I’m not doing this to make my life easier or to torture you: I’m doing it to protect you.

Tying my boot laces already,
Your Teacher

Dear Terrence,

I thought today was a lost cause. I thought you guys would never get it all back together. I was convinced that getting you refocused would be all but impossible. After two interruptions like you guys experienced, it would have been difficult for anyone to get back to the task at hand.

First, the fight. If you could call it a fight. I still don’t know why James attacked Bryce, and I don’t know why Bryce just sat there in the desk and took it. Disturbing on so many levels, not the least of which was the entertainment factor it seemed to have for most of you. A young man was getting pummeled, and you guys laughed. Such brutality is so foreign to me that I can only recoil, but you guys find it funny. Or was that laugh something else?

Then there was the verbal altercation with the girls while I walked the two boys down to the grade-level administrator. I know even less about that incident than I do about the fight, but I know they were angry, ready to fight themselves. I saw it in their eyes.

So when I tried to rein you guys in, I was doubtful about the ultimate success. I’ll admit that part of me was convinced class was a wash. But somehow, you guys pulled it together. And I have to say I was impressed. No side conversations about the fights. No comments when the girls came back (well, almost none). Well done. More promise.

With hope,
Your Teacher

Dear Frank,

The other day I did something I doubt you have ever done: I met your daughter. She’s really something: smart, amusing, sincere, beautiful. Though she’s only thirteen, she’s got a maturity about her that is striking. Sure, she’s an at-risk kid, but the difference is, she knows it. She’s aware of it. And she wants to change it.

You could do a lot to help her, but she doesn’t know where you are. Indeed, she doesn’t know who you are — she told me herself. I didn’t ask. She volunteered the information. (Don’t worry: your daughter is not the only one to share family secrets like that. In fact, she’s not the only one to share that family secret. But that’s a post for politicians and pundits.) You could help her, but instead, you left.

I think of my own children, and I try to imagine leaving them before they even knew me. What kind of a father would I be if I did that? The answer is simple. You know the answer. And statistically speaking, you know the answer on a firsthand basis: I’d venture your dad skipped out on you and gave you the example of how to be a “man” that led you to skipping out on your daughter.

Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, what could someone who doesn’t have the courage to accept the consequences of his actions teach a girl who’s trying to learn how to do just that? You’d probably drag her down, and maybe you knew that, and that’s why you left. But you see, here’s the catch — it’s a real paradox. If you had stuck around and had tried, you’d have been everything she needs. Perfect? No way, but no one is. Still, being a father is just like anything else: the more you do it, the better you get. And it’s not too late to start. Or is it? Would she want you waltzing back into her life? Certainly not: waltzing is not humble. How about contritely contacting her? That might work. Maybe a letter.

Let me start if for you:

Dear Daughter,

I don’t even know your name, and for that I’m ashamed. I have done so wrong by you that it’s hard for me to look myself in the face every morning when I shave. I hate what I’ve done to you, but I want to make it up to you. I don’t know if you want this, though, so I’ll leave it for you to decide. I’ll let you decide all the boundaries, and I’ll keep to those boundaries like they came from the mouth of God. And if you don’t want to meet me, I understand. In your shoes, I might not want to meet me either. Still, I want to apologize for what I did to you, and I want to try, somehow, to make it up to you.

There. Simple. To the point.

Of course, if you don’t even know her name, how could you send it?

Sadly,
Your Daughter’s Teacher

Dear Terrence,

We had a fire drill this morning, and I knew it was coming — we always know, for the administration sends us emails about them — and yet it wasn’t the disruption of the actual fire drill that I was dreading. I knew it would, of course, break up the flow of a lesson, and it never fails that the class with a high number of Terrences and Teresas is going exceptionally well when a fire drill occurs. There is that to consider. But what I was more concerned about was what would happen when we came back in, because I knew you and most of your classmates would be worried about one thing: your shoes.

I could hear it before we got back to the classroom, thirty-some kids all asking to go to the bathroom to clean the wet grass clippings from their shoes. Instead, I handed out paper towels. I heard a lot of thanks, but it still ate up a lot of class time.

It was a judgement call, really. I could have simply told everyone to get over it, but I thought I might use the situation to win some points with you guys. Besides, when I heard you say, “Man, my mom paid $140 for these shoes,” I knew that it wouldn’t just blow over. You would spend all your time trying to wipe the grass from your shoes, and you’d likely mutter your displeasure at having to do so, and that would only drag your neighbors into the frustration, and soon the whole class would follow. So the paper towels were preventative.

Still, I’m concerned about your worries: they’re just shoes. Even if they’re a little dirty, they will come clean when you get home. And even if they don’t come clean, even if there’s a bit of green left on your perfectly white basketball shoes, they’re just that, shoes. They’re material objects, tools, bit of rubber and leather designed to protect your feet.

Or are they?

Of course that’s not all they are. To suggest that is to be naive, I understand that perfectly. They represent status. They represent some kind of success. And thus they represent respect to you, which I suppose adds to your sense of self-worth. And that, for me, is the real tragedy. You talk constantly in class. You’ve been to alternative school. You’re wearing a home-arrest ankle bracelet (that began chirping the first day of school, I might add). And yet what you’re most worried about is whether or not your expensive shoes are clean.

Don’t you see your shoes are meaningless? Don’t you understand your self-worth comes from being a child of God, created in God’s image, destined for so much more than hunkering over your over-priced shoes, frantically scrubbing them? Can’t you understand that it’s your heart, your soul, that you need to be worried about? Don’t you worry what path you’re on, what that heart of yours might look like? From here, it looks good. Not perfect, but good. But it’s kind of like your shoes: eventually, it can get so dirty that it’s all but impossible to clean but through grace.

Ever concerned,
Your Dirty-Shoed Teacher

Dear Terrence and Teresa,

When I said yesterday that I didn’t know whether I would meet you or not, I wasn’t joking. I can’t always tell immediately who you are. Today, I could. Boy, could I ever. In fact, there was just about a whole room of Terrences and Teresas. In almost every row, there was someone whose body language was screaming, “I have had no success in school, and I find it utterly useless.” Lots of kids saying this with signs, inattentive glazed faces, attempts to engage in side conversation – the usual behaviors that give you guys away.

Teresa, I saw you first. I had my suspicions when you were standing outside my classroom, loudly proclaiming that right now you have “John Doe” for class. A student who uses a teacher’s first name like that is saying a lot by doing so. That was the first clue. It’s hinting at a familiarity that a student will never have with a teacher, and it shows that you sometimes perhaps don’t really think before speaking.

There were a few other behaviors that gave you away, but I knew I’d pegged you when, after class, we were talking and I asked you, “How many referrals did you get last year?” You glanced up at the ceiling, obviously counting. We talked about those referrals, then I stopped you in your tracks by saying, “Did you notice what I asked? I didn’t ask you ‘Did you get any referrals last year?’ but rather ‘How many did you get?’ which is a totally, radically different question.” You looked at me confused. I do this trick every year with someone, and I’m never surprised at your confusion because I’ve come to understand that you sadly you don’t understand how clearly you communicate your past behavior with your present actions. When I offered to help you figure out how to rein in those compulsive behaviors, I wasn’t sure whether your affirmation was heartfelt. We’ll find out. But remember, I’m always willing to help.

Now you, Terrence, didn’t make your grand appearance until the end of the day, after I’d already had you in class. I have to admit: you’d sort of slipped through my radar in class. You didn’t when I saw you walking down the hall, virtually yelling about how much you hated this school and how much everyone is always on your back. Believe me, it was hard to miss you. I don’t often step in between a teacher and a student, but I could tell you needed some help, and I was sure I could get you in a calm place. And after a few moments, we were just talking.

“You look really frustrated,” I said.

“You look like you feel trapped between the demands of two teachers,” I said.

You said a lot, but you did so respectfully. And that gives me a lot of hope, and I hope it does the same for you as well. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, and I’ll try to get you ready for the inevitable, because it’s coming: I have a sense that we’ll develop a great relationship until I have to call you down in my class. It’s happened before, with other Terrences from other years. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, but until then, just remember the two simple ideas I shared with you:

1. As unfair as it seems, adults can get by with talking to you in a tone of voice that you cannot use with them without getting into serious trouble. But don’t worry too much about that: all of us adults have been through it too. Just remember that’s how the rules work: as long as you’re not trying to play basketball by football rules, you’ll be fine.
2. Count to three before you speak. As you’re counting, ask yourself some simple questions: “Do I really need to say this? Is this likely to make the teacher more upset or less?”

I’ve got a thousand and one other tips to help you out, Terrence, and you too, Teresa. We’ll get to those later this year. In the meantime, remember: breath, count, and don’t tackle any point guards.

Pleased to have met you,
Your New Teacher

Photo by Kevin Krejci

Dear Terrence,

We haven’t met, but by the time twenty four hours pass, we will have met. I might not even realize it yet, for you sometimes manage to keep yourself hidden in the rank and file, just another face in a sea of first day jitters, but more than likely, I’ll have a pretty good idea who you are, and how many of you there are as well.

Part of me wants to say something like this: It’s all up to you. Whether I meet you or not is a simple question of self control. You could simply blend in, follow the examples you see around you of successful students, and you could just disappear before you even make your entrance. I want to say that’s possible, but I’m not sure a thirteen-year-old has that kind of fortitude. At your age, you tend to make things more complicated than they really are, and combined with your fatalism, that makes it highly unlikely that I won’t meet you. You’ll feel unjustly accused, or you’ll suspect someone across the room is talking about you, or you’ll simply need some attention, or a thousand and one other motivations might click and then we’ll meet.

I could actually be on the lookout for you: all I have to do is take my roll sheets down the seventh-grade hall and ask for references. It seems unfair now, and I strenuously avoided any comments from anyone about any of my students, but truth be told, that’s what “real life” — whatever that might be — is like.

All that being said, I have no doubt I’ll figure out who you are fairly quickly. At risk kids wear their cracks on their sleeves even when they think they are being impenetrable, and your body language will likely give you away. So the real question is, what then? When I figure out who you are, when I tell you the jig’s up, what then? Hopefully, I’ll do better with you this year than I did last year, which was better than the year before that. But will it be enough? Can we make it?

We’ll start to see tomorrow.

Concerned as always,
Your Future Teacher

Dear Terrence,

Seven years ago, on 13 October 2006, I wrote this, I worked at a day treatment facility for kids who had been unable to find a path to success in school.

Yesterday, one of the boys in our program asked if he could use the computer for a little while. “No problem,” I said. He’s had a great week, and it was a slow morning.

The week was much improved over the past. We were both frustrated about how things were going in my class – he much more than I. At the end of the last six weeks, when we were working on science (now we’ve switched to social studies for the second six weeks), M-Jezzy (his nom de plume at our program’s blog) was trying to make up some missed work, and getting very frustrated about it.

“Man, I just hate science,” he exclaimed.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Not everyone likes science. What we can do, though, is use that as a way to make up some of your work.” I instructed him to log into our blog, akacoolpeople.com, and write about science and why he hates it. “Explain three reasons you don’t like it, and we’ll count that as one of your missed assignments.”

He wrote,

I do not like science at all. And i,ve got three reasons why. One reason is because it is so confusing. likewhe gives the homework out. I dont know what he is talking about beause. They would be so many things that he is talking about. An the other reason iswhen he gives the i want know what to do because. It will be so many things that you would have to look for an you would have to do so much research. And the last reason is the things that he teaches in class i dont know wat in the world that hebe talking about. Likewe was talking about an atom an what i have to study about it is so hard because. The atom has so many things in it. And you will get mixed up with all the parts of an atom. Beceause you will not know how to put them in oder. An if you get this and you are really feeling wat i am saying to you then mail me back M-JEZZY out. I hate science so bad i wish i did not have it at all. (science)

I read it and thought, “What an indictment of me. I obviously don’t explain things for him, and I can’t even make myself clear when assigning homework.”

Depressing.

But fixable.

I talked to the head teacher about it; I talked to the program director about it; I talked to the head counselor about it. The consensus: M-Jezzy does not deal with ambiguity well (as if anyone really does). Like most people, he wants to know where he’s going and what he’s going to have to do to get there.

Starting this week, I began something new. Something obvious. Something basic. Something I should have been doing all along. I blocked off a portion of the white-board and wrote an outline of what we’d be doing, including information about what kind of activity it would be.

Next class, M-Jeezy was like a different young man – much more attentive, much more focused, much more involved. He asked penetrating questions, and he didn’t giggle too much.

A success, I thought.

Back to yesterday morning. M-Jezzy sits down at the computer and logs into “aka cool people,” and starts typing. This is what he writes:

now sence my teacher was started to put the agenda on the board i am starting to learn more in class and i know no wat to do.And i am not getting confused write me

I can’t remember the last time I felt so good.

Yet it was not what M-Jezzy wrote that made my day – it was that he did it spontaneously.

M-Jezzy was fifteen when I wrote this, theoretically a tenth-grader but he was still in eighth grade because of behavior. He’d been tossed out of regular school because of his behavior — basically an unwillingness to regulate his impulses in any way whatsoever — and then tossed out of alternative school for the same reason. All of this left him with few alternatives, which is how he landed in our day treatment facility — a last ditch effort to teach him the social and personal skills he so clearly lacked and so desperately needed.

In the end, it’s clear that we didn’t get through to M-Jezzy, for later this week, he’ll be going to trial facing six charges: misdemeanors and two felonies. The former: trespass charges and assault on a female; the latter: first degree murder and intentional child abuse with serious physical injury. He stands accused of beating to death his girlfriend’s four-year-old son.

From the accounts I’ve read in newspapers, it seems a reasonable assumption that he’s guilty. Knowing him personally and seeing his temper in action, I find it tragically plausible that he did indeed beat a toddler to death.

The vindictive (read: human) side of me thinks his punishment should be based on a simple mathematical equation. A proportion, really. Take the pounds per square inch of his punch over the weight of the child he beat to death. The other side of the proportion you can probably figure out: x over his weight. Solve for X. Then he should be beaten regularly by someone who can hit with that much force. Beaten for weeks on end. Months on end. The end will come — eventually, he’ll be beaten to death in one, long session. But he’ll never know which one it will be. So each time he sees his executioner, he’ll have to ask himself the same question his victim asked himself: how will it end this time?

Fortunately, I’m not in charge of sentencing. The compassionate side of me realizes that such punishment is cruel, but again, the vindictive side says, “Who is he to deserve mercy?” It’s a conundrum.

I write this to you because I want to be perfectly clear with you: I don’t know how M-Jezzy got from where he was merely a disruptive kid in an under-funded day treatment facility to a young man facing serious prison time (if he survives: my aunt, who worked in the prison system for twenty years, assures me that as soon as inmates find out what M-Jezzy got convicted of, if he’s convicted, they’ll take care of the problem). I don’t know the road he took, but I do know this: you remind me of him so much sometimes it’s terrifying. And now, it should be terrifying for you.

With concern,
Your Teacher

Dear Teresa,

When I asked you today to keep track of your positive comments and negative comments throughout the day, I didn’t really realize you might not be able to tell the difference. I realized this when I saw in the positive column, “Please get out of my face.”

Despite what you’ve been told, “please” doesn’t always make all the difference in the world.

With a smile,
Your Teacher

Though I am not a mathematician, physicist, or astronomer, and though I teach words, words, words, my professional life is an orbit of numbers. Some of the numbers are relatively innocuous: attendance, school picture orders, class periods. Yet every fall I get a series of numbers that guides instructional decisions for the next months and serves as the first half of what, to some degree, is largely regarded as a metric of my effectiveness as a teacher. In the spring, students trudge back into the computer lab as they did today to take the second MAP test, and I sit at my computer, entering the various scores, hoping that each student will score higher than she did in the fall.

The fall testing regime tells me what I have to work with. There are rarely any surprises: I can often guess within three or four points what a given student will make. By the time they’ve taken the test, the students have been in my class for a month, plenty of time to figure out their strengths and weaknesses. Add to it the fact that English and math classes are grouped by ability in our county and it’s a relatively easy exercise, this “Guess My Score.”

But there are always surprises. Today, for example, student after student in one class just seemed to be scoring higher and higher. Given the fact that an average MAP reading score for an eighth grader is 220, seeing student after student score above 240 is astounding. “It’s no wonder these kids are in English I Honors, effectively skipping eight-grade English and going straight to a ninth-grade, rigorous honors course,” I thought as I punched in the numbers. I knew they would be high, but this high? Unheard of. The highest fall class average I’ve ever encountered. And then one student finished with a score of 255, just four points lower than the highest spring score I’d ever seen!

It’s much more dramatic when one knows the grade level norms for the MAP reading test.

So the reading level of the student who scored a 255 is at least a college freshman, if not higher.

“What am I going to do with these kids?” I joked with a colleague. “They’re already scoring higher than they should at the end of ninth grade!”

“Make them your assistant teachers,” she replied.

Yet it’s not a serious problem: I just have to push them harder than usual. It would be a problem if they were mixed in with some students from other classes, because their reading level is significantly below grade level.

Later in the day, I had the opposite situation: student after student was scoring significantly below grade level. By significant, I mean a class average that, for the first twelve or thirteen students, didn’t rise above 197. Several students were scoring in the 180’s. Scroll back up and check the chart: that’s a second- or third-grade reading level. Though several students were absent from that class, I was still hopeful that by the time I entered the final scores, the average would rise above 200. But there were no scores high enough to pull the mean up, until the 223. The highest score in the class, and technically a score above average. The mean soared, rising to almost 201. I sighed in relief: it’s low, but having a sub-200 score seemed impossible. Unheard of. Then the next student finished: 186. The averaged dipped below 200 again, and stayed there until the end of testing, just two tenths of a point away from 200.

At the end of the day, I looked at the summary I’d created. Two classes drastically below average; two classes radically above. The lowest score put one student at a second-grade reading level; the highest score put another student at a college freshman or sophomore level.

“Thank goodness I don’t have them in the same class,” I thought. What could a teacher possibly do with students literally ten to twelve grade levels apart in reading? It’s essentially a return to the one-room school concept. Fortunately, I don’t have to figure out a way to solve that problem in my class, and the math teachers are equally fortunate. But social studies and science? There’s no leveling there, and so one’s class is likely to be an incredible mix of ability, motivation, and preparedness. I know there are ways to compensate for this (I have a Master’s in education, for heaven’s sake), but those techniques and tricks seem hardly up to such a challenge: they seem like they work only in theory. In practice, someone is always going to be bored, and thus someone is always going to be disruptive.

I wish I could end this with some sort of optimistic, pithy observation about the nature of education, about the malleability of the brain, about the strength of the human spirit, or some such cliche. I have answers I’ve found in books, but I don’t know how effective they are in dealing with such issues, especially when a significant portion of the challenge lies in challenging others to change their habits and behaviors.

It leaves me feeling pessimistic.

But I’ll get over it by Monday.

Dear Terrence,

There you are! I’ve been wondering if you’d decided not to come to school at all this year, but it just turned out that you were going to a different school and hadn’t transferred to our happy classroom yet.

I thought I might have recognized you when I saw you, the new kid, walking down the hall. It was something about how you walked, how you carried yourself, how you wore your hair, how you interacted with people — hints of thug-wanna-be — that made me think, “Well, is that Terrence?” before I’d even met you.

You might have noticed that I’m trying for early intervention with you. I want to you to see early on that, despite your tendency to fly into disrespectful mini-rages when being redirected, despite your tendency to put your head down in class, despite your tendency to speak whatever comes into your mind, despite your tendency to get up and wander anywhere in the classroom you choose, I’m still on your side, I’m still hoping to help you, and I still think you can do better than you’re doing now.

You’ve got a lot to work on, though. You’ve built up a lot of bad habits that land you squarely and immediately in trouble, and you don’t seem to realize that you quickly create for yourself a reputation. Once that bad reputation is in place, few adults will give you the benefit of any doubt. I’m trying not to let that sway me, but I’ll be honest: eventually, and it might be sooner rather than later, I’ll reach a point that I decide it’s in everyone else’s best interest to get you out of the classroom through administrative referral and the accompanying suspension. In other words, I’ll get tired of dealing with the same issues again and again. You show progress, and I’ll have seemingly endless patience; otherwise, it’s going to be a long year for you in my class.

I don’t mean that to sound like a threat. It probably does to you. You’ve probably heard things like this from other teachers. Still, it’s your behavior that brings this on you. You’ll notice there are plenty of students I never have such conversations with. You can be in that group. But you’re the only one who can put yourself in that group.

Regards,
Your Teacher

Dear Terrence,

Where are you? We’ve been in school over two weeks now, and you’ve yet to show yourself. Usually, by the end of the first class I know which student (or students) will be this year’s Terrences, this years Teresas. But this year, you’re keeping it together much longer than usual. Your attitude hasn’t really come out yet. You haven’t really been disrespectful. You haven’t caused a major disruption.

Understand, I’m certainly not complaining. When you show up, often productivity in the classroom drops a bit because I’m taking more time than I know I should to deal with your behavior issues. So your ability to keep yourself under wraps this year is really a blessing in many ways.

Still, by now, you’ve usually made your appearance and I’ve already begun trying to coach and to encourage you, to give you a few new tools for your sorely-lacking social skills toolbox. But I don’t know who you are yet.

Yours,
A. Teacher