I Wish I Didn’t See Myself in This

I got a really neat book from the IRA a few months back titled How We “Do” School: Poems to Encourage Teacher Reflection, by Karen Morrow Durica. It’s a great collection of school-related poems, some poignant, some thoughtful, some hilarious. The one that gave me the most pause was called The Bully:

School was a dreadful place for me.
He was there every day.
Loomed over me;
Made me feel small
No matter how I tried to please.

He delighted in my embarrassment,
Pointed out my flaws;
Gave little or no care
Of who might hear my limitations
Or see me wince at his words.

He oppressed me with his power.
Daily made sure
I knew my place,
And had no illusions
Of moving into the accepted crowd.

I ached for his approval.
He gave it to a favored few.
I was tormented knowing
I never shone in any way
But in his disappointment.

I could not retaliate.
My impotence was guaranteed.
He was bigger than I;
Older than I;
Smarter than I.
He was my teacher.

I have to catch myself sometimes, because I could really see myself coming off like the guy in this poem. The thing that gets to me most is the kid who won’t try. One of my little guys writes 7 to answer any addition problem that he doesn’t immediately know the answer to. I’ve told him to slow down on his timings, I’ve shown him several ways to get to the correct answers, I’ve spent the time; he’s made a conscious choice, here, to be lazy and not try.

The other day I stopped him mid-timing and asked to use his strategies—to try. He shrugs and carries on like I’m not even there. After the timer went off I took his paper and put it in the garbage can.

“Why aren’t you going to grade mine?” he asked.
“What would be the point?” I asked back. “You didn’t try hard, and you know it.”
“I did too!”
“Aaron, here you told me that 2 plus 1 is 7. Here you told me that 8 plus 0 is 7. Here you’ve told me 5 plus 5 is 7. What is 2 plus 1?”
“Three.”
“So why the 7?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. And that’s why I’m not grading this.”

Looking back, I was sharp with him. I bullied him. I told him his work was garbage, and I meant it.

But was I wrong?

At what point do you set aside patience and make the student responsible for their own work? When they fail in this responsibility in a spectacular way, how many opportunities to succeed are they owed before you let them own their failure? Can “being nice” get in the way of letting the kid solve his own problems?

I’m thinking about this lately because I’m reading Rafe Esquith’s new book, Teach Like Your Hair’s On Fire. Esquith is a magical writer and the classroom he describes is the one that I wish I had, but as I read I just marvel at the grace and dignity that seems to come as naturally to him as breathing does to the rest of us.

He has grace; I have grump.

I’ve got to do better.