One of my favorite sayings from Carrie N., a retired teacher who grew up in a Rosenwald school (see www.underthekudzu.org), is "Children know when you love them." This simple, sage comment comes from a woman who is the granddaughter of a slave, whose sharecropping father died young, seemingly leaving her with no way to finish school. Fortunately, due to the interest her principal at the Chinquapin Colored school took in her, Carrie was able to attend college and went on to a long and distinguished teaching career. She taught in segregated schools, and later was one of the first teachers to integrate a white faculty in Pender County, NC, where I live.
Carrie is the subject of my of new film project, but I admit that I am overwhelmed just now and have not gone through all the footage of our last interviews. I am trying, but our back to school season has been hectic. I was at school past 5 pm three days last week, trying to catch up on the complex paperwork required for each exceptional child who is new to our school. This is work that I find almost impossible to do during the school day, with one high-needs child staying in the room all day and another 39 students with various levels of need coming and going.
Thankfully, my own children are doing well, but they also deserve my time and attention. Then there is the fact that entropy is always encroaching on our rural property. In the fall I spend several hours each weekend on the tractor. During the time that I am mowing my thoughts usually turn to school, to students I work with now and also to students I have known.
There was a student I met whose father was in prison, and by December this student was making quite a name for himself on the hall as being someone who led others-- usually in the wrong direction. I could see he was hurting, but there was also the matter of his pride and his insecurity. He could be prickly; one teacher called him a future gangster. I saw something else, but he was rapidly going down the road toward long-term suspension. He was the student who was never prepared, who wouldn't take notes, who joked or picked fights during class.
As an EC teacher I am in and out of classrooms all day, and I notice class dynamics, particularly the students who are "high fliers." Daquan (not his real name) was certainly in that category. I started greeting him each day, and when I saw him in class I would encourage him to get on track. It took a few weeks, but he started doing some work and being a little less disruptive. Still, it was clear that his focus wasn't on school. When we talked, he sometimes brought up his father in alternating terms of hope and anger. Regarding his father, I could do little more than listen and say "That must be so hard for you." Regarding Daquan himself, though, I told him the truth as I saw it: That he was intelligent, that he was special, that he was a natural leader. I also told him I would appreciate it so much if he could work on leading his friends in the right direction.
I have found or purchased school supplies for many students; all of the teachers at my school have. Usually, I try to find one of the binders with a clear plastic pocket on the front, because then I can have the child make a picture to place there to personalize it. However, I wanted Daquan to have something he would regard as more special, something that would send him a message that he was deserving of nice things. I wanted him to have the James Bond version of binders, a pricier zippered cloth binder with a dozen secret pockets. One weekend, when I was at the store replacing my son's notebook, I picked up the zipper binder for Daquan. On Monday, I invited him into the resource room between classes to get his materials organized. He put his papers in the new binder, and I gave him extra paper and dividers. We filled a pouch with fresh pencils and he was ready for class.
That spring, Daquan began to work each day. There were still plenty of times when he backslid, but gradually he began catching up to his peers who had been working all year. One day, I was in the hallway when I asked a group of boys to quiet down. One of them talked back, I can't even remember what he said, but suddenly Daquan was at my side. "Don't talk back to my teacher!" he commanded. Then he was gone, carrying the binder that he knew meant he had a special place in at least one teacher's heart. Children do know when you love them, and no software can take the place of that.
