Month: November 2024

What are we really teaching?

By the time I get to our office, lunch is already in full swing. I catch bits of at least three different conversations as I walk past the large table and plunk my things at my desk in the corner. Backpack, Chromebook, tea mug. Then I plop myself into my chair and take a deep breath. For a few seconds, I just sit and breathe, sit and listen.

This doesn’t last, of course. Time is an educator’s most precious commodity, and even lunchtime is limited. I grab my lunch bag and make my way toward the table and my colleagues. As I sit, I hear one teacher exclaim to another, “Right? He’s soooo rude. The other day he called me a [very bad word for women]. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I ignored it, obviously, and I reported it, but of course nothing will happen.”

The second teacher nods along, sympathetically, then adds, “Does he do that thing where you say something to him and he flat-out ignores you, then he asks the male teacher and gets the same answer? And then he does whatever the male teacher said and sort of smirks at you while he does it?”

“Of course he does.”

They are laughing now, comrades in arms, relieved that this experience is not theirs alone. The stories continue.

My heart has dropped. They are talking about the young person I wrote about in my last blog post, the same young person who I’d hoped I was beginning to understand a little better. I start to tell them that I have *just* written about him, that I think there is a way forward, but I hesitate. 

I think about the wariness the two girls displayed last week when they encountered him. I think about the way I felt last year, the way he treated me. I think about what I am hearing now in the lunchroom.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what we should do. What are we responsible for teaching? English? History? Math? Yes, of course. But educators talk, too, about the “whole student” and the “hidden curriculum” and the things schools teach based on what we accept and don’t accept. I wonder if my decision to lean into his “humour” – which is so often rude – is actually harming him? Perhaps those of us who have worked to “meet him where he’s at” need to hold him to a different standard? And if we did, would anything change? How much influence do we have anyway?

In the office, the conversation swirls and the topics change. The bell rings, everyone heads to classrooms, and the rhythm of the school day subsumes my moment of doubt. Periodically throughout the week, I wonder and even worry, but there’s never a moment to find another teacher to sit and talk through the larger implications of these questions. Mostly, my thoughts remain my thoughts.

*****

This morning, he walks by my classroom carrying a large box. “Christmas lights!” he calls out delightedly. And even though he has interrupted my class, even though he is too loud, and he shouldn’t be in the hallway, I call back, “I love it!” and I give him a big smile.

Here is where we grow

School doesn’t start for at least half an hour, but I’m already letting two students into my classroom because one of them thinks she left her vest here yesterday, and ninth graders often move in pairs. As I jiggle the key in the lock, a large figure lumbers up behind us.

 “Oh!” I smile, “I heard a rumour that you passed your Civics class!”

He lurches to a halt in the near-empty hallway and glares at me. My key finally turns, opening the door just as he leans forward and breathes, “I cheated on all my tests” – only he says “testes” and, their eyes wide, the girls practically tumble into the classroom. He shuffles away.

In the room, the lost vest is retrieved and then, in a significantly more graceful echo of what just happened, one child leans towards me and murmurs, “Why would he say that?”

My mind clicks backwards through the moment, and I realize what they think just happened. “He was embarrassed,” I reassure them, “because I gave him a compliment. Some people have a hard time being praised. He did not cheat on his tests.” I emphasize the word tests.

They nod, unconvinced, and head into the hallway just as he returns. They flee. He stops again and looks me up and down. “Do you still have that box?”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Oh, yes!” I feign distraction as I move to the front corner of the room. The box he wants is hidden under a desk. “I was just wondering if maybe I should get rid of it,”  I pause, “but if you really did pass Civics, I suppose you could get a prize.”

He squints his eyes. “Two.”

“Hmm…” I pretend to consider this. “Well, first I need to know if you cheated on any tests.”

He glances around, wary. No one is nearby. “No,” he admits, and I swear I see a bit of a blush on his cheeks, but I could be making that up.

For the next fifteen minutes, he rummages through my “Box of Terrible Prizes.” He holds up various items, considering. He tells me which things are still there from last year (hint: it’s most of them), and I remind him that they really are terrible prizes. Undeterred, he checks out tchotchkes and useless plastic toys. He asks more than once if I have anything that makes noise. I do not. He points out prizes that he brought in for trades. Eventually, I remind him that class will start soon, so he makes his choice. Two prizes. No noisemakers. Delighted, toys in hand, he shuffles out of the room, leaving me aglow.

******

Last year, when he was in grade 9, I taught him. Well, “taught” might be a bit of an exaggeration. Last year, we were in the same classroom and sometimes he kind of did English-y things. Often, he was rude to me and others. Sometimes he was very rude. By the end of the school year, even after he’d left my class, every time he saw me in the hallways, he sneered things like, “Oh. It’s you. I hate seeing you,” or “Seeing you makes my day awful.” I am embarrassed to admit that, eventually, I let this make me angry. 

Sure, I had read his school records and communicated with his middle school teachers, so I knew he needed a lot of time and stability to settle into a place. I knew his IEP and had read all his old report cards, but he drove me up a wall. I wasn’t alone; few teachers connected with him. I couldn’t imagine how his middle school teachers had been able to find what they confidently called his “sense of humour.” All I saw was an angry young man.

One thing about a school, though, is that it’s full of kids – and kids grow. And, whether we like it or not, we’re all sort of stuck there together for a few years while they do this. He is lucky to have a Resource room full of people who have kept an open mind about his growth. I will argue that I am luckier that he kept an open mind about me – or maybe he never quite realized that I was actually angry. And I’m lucky that those same colleagues have helped me see him more clearly, too. 

*****

This morning, I realize that I get his humour now: I laugh as he moans and groans about the quality of my terrible prizes; I snicker when he tells me that I need more, and that I’m clearly not giving out enough prizes – maybe this year’s grade nines aren’t as good as he was. I fake exasperation when he lingers as my 12th graders come in, and he scowls when I make him leave, but he’s here. He’s still here. And here is where we grow.