So Laura was down at the district today, doing a technology workshop (this district doesn't have money to pay teachers, but somehow it finds funds to flood the teachers it can afford to pay with technology). And since I am not a licensed teacher in Oregon, she brought in a substitute to satisfy the legal requirement that there be a licensed teacher in the room at all times. Rochelle taught for many years at another local middle school, and seemed to enjoy our kids.
I had one distinctly interesting reaction today. During a work period, I noticed that a few kids instinctively jumped up and started asking her questions. This in and of itself wasn't surprising. But what struck me was how accepting these kids are of strangers in their classrooms--as long as those strangers are adults. I think Rochelle came off, pretty immediately, as approachable and caring--a few things that Laura doesn't exactly radiate, and there was a palpable sense of relief in the air with many of our kids. A few of them even asked if Laura was gone for good, which put both of us in a strange position. I think of them as "my kids," but, in all fairness, they are more Laura's at this point than mine. And I don't like the way they are trying to create a divide between us.
Maybe that's the wrong way to think about it. They're not creating the divide. The divide exists. They recognize it. And it became very clear today, since I was in charge, and I do a lot less yelling about what is or should be on their desks, and Rochelle mostly just moved about the room helping, guiding kids back to the task at hand. She will be working with them later this month when neither Laura nor I will be there. I think she will be just fine.
Bronson (the child in the hallway) had another rough day. When he entered the room, he and Theo got into a little scuffle; I think (though I didn't see) that Theo smacked him with a book, and then Bronson proceeded to chase him around the room, and so I stepped in. First I asked them to stop running, to have a seat. They didn't. They proceeded to fight over the book. I asked them to stop, again. It was as though I was not even there. So I stepped between them, physically put my body into the contested space, asked them to sit down again. Theo went back to his desk; Bronson did not. I asked him to step out into the hall to take a minute to settle down, nothing punitive, just to take a break. This was a strategy that he and I had discussed one-on-one before, and he had agreed that he would take a break when he needed to or when I asked him to. He didn't. I reminded him of our agreement. He started to argue. I asked him again to step out into the hall, reminding him that right now there wasn't any trouble, but that if he didn't do what I was asking him to do there would be. He continued to argue. I told him that he needed to leave the room or I would write him a referral (which apparently mean a great deal to the kids), he continued to argue, and then he left the room.
As he was leaving the room he started singing a song about how much I hate him, then he proceeded to bang his head against the class window looking into our classroom. I told him, at that point, that I was going to write him a referral.
Or, I should say, I turn to Mrs. P, the guidance counselor, who had come to class to observe Bronson (we had a meeting about him yesterday morning), and asked her if she could show me how to write referral, because this seemed like the sort of thing that warranted it. She nodded, pleasantly and affirmingly. Then she went out into the hall to help Bronson settle down.
Class continued. All things considered, it went fairly well, though Bronson spent most of his time outside of class, stewing about the referral.
Mrs. P came back at the end of class (I asked her to, since Rochelle had to leave for a surprise doctor's appointment, and I didn't want to break the law), and she and I chatted with Bronson after class.
I told him that I was going to write the referral. He was really upset about it, mostly because he had plans that afternoon, and he was going to be grounded because of the referral. He was doing that classic move, trying to make me feel guilty for ruining his plans. I reminded him that he had made a few choices that caused me to have to right the referral, so, looked at one way, he had actually ruined his own plans. I said what I needed to say, mostly that I still liked Bronson and that I wished that we could find ways for us to have more positive interactions in class, but that I wasn't inclined to be lenient with this particular incident, since we had discussed this very issue previously and had come up with some possible strategies that he didn't use in the moment. Mrs. P listened as I spoke and as Bronson responded.
Bronson finally said to me: "So you're not going to do what I'm proposing?" He had proposed that I not write the referral, contingent on his behavior the next day. I told him that I wasn't inclined to, but that I wanted Mrs. P's feedback, since she was there and had observed the whole incident.
I wish I could transcribe for you the conversation that followed: the punchline was that I should write the referral, but that she wanted to work with Bronson to help him avoid finding himself in situations like the one he was in. But listening to the conversation that she had with him was...inspiring. I have griped in these pages about this school seeming not to care about the kids--and in some large ways I stand by those gripes. But Mrs. P really cares, and not only that, she is extremely skilled--even masterful--at demonstrating that care.
Here's the moment when my jaw would have dropped, if it had been appropriate to let it. Bronson had spent most of the conversation with his head in his hands. And during the conversation she had with him she was laser focused on him. It was as though I disappeared. He was expressing frustration about always being singled out and feeling like he was never going to be able to fit in. So she put out her arms and said: "I want you to tell me where you think you fit on the scale of kids I've worked with. Over here we have the kids who are so off the wall you might put 'em in a loony bin. Over here we have the kids who are quiet and timid, like mice. Where do you think you are." He pointed, vaguely, towards the loony bin in her right hand. "Go ahead and point." He stood up and looked at her. It was the first time he had looked up. He pointed somewhere between her elbow and her wrist. She smiled. I had goosebumps, sensing what was next. She cupped her hands in the middle of her chest, a gesture of such tenderness it broke my heart: "You're right here, Bronson, right in the middle."
She want on to list a few positive things she knew about him, and invited him to come spend some time with her, to help him develop some strategies. He was resistant, but he didn't shut her out. Both of us sensed that he was done, that he'd reached his limit for the day. So she took him with her, back to her office, where he spent the rest of the class period playing with a large purple stuffed dragon.
I wrote the referral, made my first phone call home.
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