Entry # 24: "I see the truth of Darren
now"
Life with Darren is a roller coaster. One day he is cooperative and on-task
(or at least what being cooperative and on-task is when talking about Darren),
the next day he is belligerent and does everything in his power to try to
get you to send him out of the room for time out. I can tell from the moment
he walks into the room which Darren has shown up for class.
I have been working very hard to get to know Darren better as a person.
I am already aware of his academic and behavioral deficiencies as a student,
and while that information is helpful, it is not the complete picture of
this child. I have vowed to put my internal reactions to his behavior to
the side in order to see the person beneath the film of disrespect and disruption.
I am so glad I did.
A few weeks ago while I was supervising students during passing time, Darren
walked up to me and said, "Happy Birthday!" (It was not my birthday.)
I asked, "Where is my present?"--just joking of course. He replied,
"Oops! I left it at home," and went to class. The next morning,
he ran up to me and handed me a magazine. "What's this?" I asked.
"It's your birthday present. Now you can't say I never gave you anything."
He walked away while I stood there, dumbfounded.
Giving a teacher a gift is not the action of a student who does not want
a relationship with his teacher. Furthermore, if he wants a relationship
with me, he wants to learn, and maybe he believes I can help him. It is
a starting place for both of us, but especially for me. My mind can no longer
support the thinking that his disruptive behavior is a symptom of personal
disrespect; I suspect it is, instead, a cry for help.
I was completely off target
As I was perusing my students' journals, I came across an entry of Darren's
in response to the question, "Do you want your classmates to think
you are smart? Explain why or why not." The class, as a whole, had
answers across the spectrum. Yes, they wanted to be looked at as smart because
they wanted to help their peers and get good grades. No, they didn't want
people to think they were smart because then others would want to copy their
work or cheat off their papers during tests. It was an interesting look
into their attitudes and perceptions.
Darren, however, did not have the expected response. I was sure he would
make some kind of off-hand remark about how being smart wasn't cool, that
it would ruin his rep. I was completely off target.
Darren wrote, "Yes I wish people thought I was smart because being
in the grade I am and not knowing the first grade words is not a good thing."
BAM! The sledgehammer blow to my chest was devastating. Darren's honesty
about his academic weaknesses shocked me. Not only was he aware of his problems,
but he was admitting them to me, a teacher who on some days he actively
fights against. Here was yet another sign he trusted me, another subtle
plea for assistance.
The Hatchet poster
A third event transpired last week that also helped remold my concept of
Darren. When our science teacher went on a field trip, we were self-contained
for the day because we had no one to cover her class and we had to divide
her remaining homeroom students among the three remaining classes. Shortly
after lunch, Darren appeared at my door.
"Mrs. Berg, can I please come in here? If I stay in the math room,
I'm going to get in trouble. He's going to put me out."
I thought about declining. I already had thirty students in my very small,
24-desk classroom, and Darren is anything but low-maintenance. However,
I knew what he was telling me was true. Darren would get in trouble if he
stayed in the other room. At least he was asking for help. I sent a note
with Darren, asking the teacher for permission, and the teacher gladly sent
Darren to me.
I gave Darren the task of creating a poster on the computer that said, "Hatchet
Questions," that we would post in the hallway over the questions students
had generated about the book as we read it. He could add pictures, use word
art, and any color he wanted as long as the heading I requested was clear.
Darren got right down to work. He occasionally asked questions about aspects
of the computer program, but beyond that, he didn't stir from his seat or
bother any other student in the room. He was unable to finish it that period,
but he promised he would come back later in the week to finish it.
The next day after he had finished his work in another class, he entered
my classroom. "Can I finish that poster now?" I checked his pass,
then agreed. I was surprised once again; I doubted he would follow through,
yet here he was.
He printed out a rough draft, and to my surprise he had added a paragraph
to summarize the book and explain what a hatchet was. Furthermore, he asked
me to proofread it because, "Since it's going in the hall it can't
have no mistakes." When he had corrected the errors, he asked for the
tape, then proudly placed it on the wall. Then, as quickly and quietly as
he had arrived, he returned to his class.
I see the truth
With those three experiences in mind, I have begun to look at Darren's behavior
differently in my classroom. He is still far from perfect, but I have seen
better behavior and more effort recently. His behavior now reminds me of
an old woman who relentlessly crabs on and on about her numerous ailments,
nothing but harmless cries for attention. He wants to be seen and heard,
and I suppose he was often ignored as a younger student when he did not
"get it" as quickly as the rest of his classmates. Unfortunately,
he is still being ignored by the teachers at Turner, the ones who throw
their hands up in exasperation at his behavior, who put him out when he
does not conform.
But not by me. Not anymore. I see the truth of Darren now.
One day this week when Darren was being particularly obnoxious, I took him
out to the hallway for a private conversation where I laid all the facts
out in front of him.
"I know why you are acting this way. I know the work is hard for you,
and I know you have trouble reading, but I also know you want to learn.
I read your journal entry where you said you felt bad because you only knew
the first grade words, and I know you told me that because you want to learn.
I see you, and I will do everything in my power to help you learn what you
need to know. I will work with you on my prep period, I will stay after
school, I will do whatever I have to do to help you, but you have to help
me too. You are not a bad child, so I will no longer tolerate you acting
bad in my classroom. Furthermore, there is nothing you can do to make me
put you out of my classroom. You are mine, and I am going to keep you in
here with me and there's nothing you can do."
He kind of looked at me, then looked away again. I asked, "Do you understand
me?" He replied, "Yes." We went back into the room and he
sat down to do his work.
There was not one disruption from him for the rest of the period. I told
him to call me over each time he finished a question from the reading response
journal for the day so I could check his answer and answer any questions
he had. I saw the best work from Darren that I have ever seen -- thoughtful,
detailed explanations of his ideas about the novel. When I told him what
a great job he was doing explaining himself, he looked at me in disbelief
and said, "Really?" "Really," I replied.
If everyone tried, could we save them all?
When I first started teaching, my father told me I couldn't save them all.
I can see the truth in that, but too many of us use that as an excuse to
save none or only the ones who come willingly. I wonder if we, as teachers,
were all acting in our students' best interests instead of our own, could
we save them all? Maybe. Probably.
We are all human. We have the opportunity to use our best qualities (compassion,
planning, kindness, and understanding) or our worst (being reactive instead
of proactive, being angry, and taking things personally) in the classroom
every day. It is not easy to always be favoring our good qualities, but
it is essential when dealing with our more difficult students, especially
since they seem to play to our worst side regularly.
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