I always get reflective toward the end of the school year, thinking about the good and the bad that’s occurred. I like to mentally wrap it all up and take time to consider what successes I can build on in the future, as well as what needs to work better in the coming years. I think it’s probably true that most teachers will minimize their successes over a year and instead think more about the students they feel like they've let down. I’m no different.
I was thinking about one particular student a couple nights ago. She’s one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever worked with. Eternally positive, always happy, hard-working, generous, respectful, gets along with everyone. She takes her time and works hard on her tests. She hands all of her homework in. She is an incredible artist; never, at any point in my life, have I been able to draw anything with the skill on display in the sketches in her drawing notebook (which she will only take out when she knows it’s an appropriate time). When other groups give their science presentations, she always comes up with thoughtful questions for them, the kind that prove how well she was listening. I could assign her to work in a group with either her best friends or people she barely knows, and she would make the best of it either way. She is one of those kids you sometimes wish you could clone twenty-nine times to have a full class of people exactly like her. She’s amazing.
The problem is she struggles academically. Without getting specific, there are legitimate reasons why some of the things we study are usually more challenging for her than they would be for many other kids. Not that this discourages her in any way; she has said so many things meant to encourage others that it’s clear to see how she truly lives and breathes a growth mindset.
According to her score on the state math test, her year was not successful.
She reminds me of a scene from “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” Mr. Holland’s friend, the gym teacher/coach, came to him with a concern about a student athlete. This kid was struggling academically and needed another credit or he wouldn’t be eligible to participate in a sport that might help him earn a scholarship. Mr. Holland agreed to let the kid into band and worked to teach him how to play the bass drum. Now, I was a drummer, from 5th grade until my senior year of high school, so I can tell you with authority that playing a bass drum is no more difficult than tapping your foot along with a song you hear on the radio. But this kid couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard he tried. After some time, Mr. Holland told his friend he had given it his best shot, but he couldn’t teach him. His friend’s angry response was along the lines of, “If you can’t teach a kid as eager to learn as he is, then you’re a lousy teacher!”
I keep coming back to the idea of this little girl and her drawing. She clearly has the beginnings of a legitimate talent, which means there is some form of intelligence in there, and likely a lot of it. It might be manifesting itself in a different way than straight academic ability, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been there for me to work with. Anyone who can demonstrate that level of proficiency in something visual should have a good chance at succeeding in math, when so many concepts can be illustrated and modeled visually. This kind of idea is almost Teaching 101. Why did it take me until it was basically too late to realize what I’d had in front of me?
So one of my reflections this year: Where did I fail this girl? How could I have a student so hard-working and eager to learn not show the improvement she reasonably should have?
I thought it over and realized it wasn’t any one thing I did, but several.
I took for granted too often that her effort would be enough to pull her through.
I trusted her behavior and disposition too much. As long as she was working hard and happy, I let those qualities be enough to minimize any other red flags that I probably should have notice, instead devoting more time and energy to the reluctant and resistant learners in the class.
When she didn’t come to me with the questions she most likely had, I took that to mean I didn’t need to check in with her as often as I probably should have.
Why did I go after the students that presented the larger, and, for me, more frustrating challenges? Why did I want to win over the kid who sits in class with all the motivation of a bag of potatoes? Why did I work so hard to organize the kid who leaves a trail of belongings following him, like the dotted line paths in a Family Circus comic? Why did I keep coming back to reinforce the student who was just as likely as not to blow up screaming at me on any given day? Why did I plan how to gently encourage the student who had such profound math anxiety that she did all she could to physically retreat into her desk during class? Why did I sink so much effort into trying to build a relationship with the student who mainly sees school as where her social interactions take place, and the only role I had in her life was as a general inconvenience?
How did I miss the chance to take advantage of a clear form of intelligence and redirect it into a different discipline?
I know this girl learned this year. I know she enjoyed her time in my room. I know school was a great experience for her, and I know I helped her. I just don’t know if it was enough. I’m left feeling like I should have done more.
Twenty-five years into the career, and it’s clear I still have things to learn.
No comments:
Post a Comment