Today I had one of those moments. Those moments that leave you
speechless and humbled. Those moments when you find yourself so surprised yet
chastise yourself for ever doubting it could happen. I don't quite even know
how to put it into words but maybe it will come to me if I just tell you the
story.
It all started the first semester of my first year teaching. It
was my second block class and I had the Agriscience class from you-know-where
(as my BT coordinator says.) They were loud, they were mean, they were rude.
There were some really great kids in there, but there were a few bad apples
that spoiled the whole bunch. One of these apples was *Pete. Of course *Pete
isn't his real name but if one of the seven of you who actually follow my blog
read this as report me to my principal, there's no telling what kind of trouble
I'd be in.
*Pete did not want to be in the class (or in school.) As such, he
dubbed himself "the disturber." He was bound and determined to
distract as many people as he could, disrupt every lesson, and show disrespect
every possible moment. So needless to say we butted heads. Like, a lot.
He was that kid that you secretly pray won't be at school today
because you just need a break (but shows up every day anyway--you assume just
to spite you.)
I remember the struggle lasted the whole semester. I talked to
coaches and teachers. I attempted to talk to his parents. "They don't let
him talk more than about 10 minutes at a time in prison, Miss," I remember
him saying.
So *Pete finally made it out of Agriscience and even passed the
test, much to my surprise. And as the semesters went by I listened as other
teachers complained about having the same exact problems with him and I just
gave a relieved sigh that it wasn't me anymore and wished them luck.
And then it happened. The first day of the Spring 2014 semester,
my second block Animal Science students were filtering into class and finding
their assigned seats. And in strolls *Pete. He strolled quietly to my desk and
said, "Miss, can I go see about getting my schedule changed?" I
looked up at him and feigned hurt feelings as I said, "But *Pete! Don't
you want to be in my class?!?"
He was totally silent for a moment, no doubt wondering if he
should answer truthfully or correctly. He chose correctly. "Yes,
ma'am."
At this point I made a choice. I decided to lay it all out in the
open, level with him, shoot straight. "*Pete, you don't have to lie to
me."
I sent him to change his schedule, and much to our dismay, there
was nowhere else he could go. He was in my class again, to stay.
So over the last 12 weeks we've definitely had our moments and
he's been far from my star student. We've adopted this unspoken policy where he
doesn't bother me and I don't bother him. And it's been working... Mostly.
So today, we took a field trip to a farm. There we met Sam, a
beautiful paint Tennessee Walking horse. As our host was discussing basic horse
maintenance and safety, she asked for a volunteer to pick Sam's feet. No one
volunteered so she randomly chose someone. Who? *Pete.
I immediately started preparing my apology to our hosts for the
disrespectful declination he was surely getting ready to give. And then he
spoke. Here it was. (I'd have to remember it carefully so I could accurately
recount on his discipline referral.)
"Yes ma'am, I'd like to try."
First moment of shock. So then I prepared myself for the next
phase of intervention-- dragging *Pete back to the bus beating him for
endangering himself, his classmates, and the horse with his ridiculous
behavior.
But *Pete took the pick and a little nervously tapped the horses
leg as he was shown. The horse lifted his foot and *Pete caught it, gently but
firmly. With more care and precision than I knew he had, he began cleaning the
hoof, stopping from time to time to pat Sam and tell him what a good horse he
was.
I watched all this in silent awe (until the thought occurred to me
that no one at school would believe it unless I took photos.) *Pete, who had
never cared about anyone but himself. *Pete, who had never worked a day in his
life. *Pete, who never once expressed any interest in anything in my class.
As our host showed the class how to pick the back hooves, *Pete
watched her closely standing just behind her with one had on Sam. When she
turned around to ask for a volunteer, *Pete was already there, hand out-reached
to take the pick and clean Sam's back hoof.
Except for one particularly hilarious moment when we all thought *Pete
was going to get pooped on, I stood in silence watching him carefully work and
being disappointed in myself.
In that moment I realized that I had given up on *Pete. I was just
going through the motions trying to get him out my door and failing to see that
he had potential, failing to reach out to him to help him really grow. I didn't
care to find out what he liked or what he didn't, what he really cared about or
didn't, what he wanted for his life or didn't.
As a first semester, first year teacher, I had formed my opinion
of *Pete and closed the book. And so when he came into my class for the second
time, even though I had changed and grown, I never have him credit for having
changed and grown too.
I wonder now what I could have done differently. If I hadn't
judged him so harshly in the beginning, could I have had the opportunity to
make a positive impact on him? If I had taken the time to get to know him,
would I have seen his behavior as an outcry for love and attention? If I had
been then the teacher I am now, what would I have done differently for *Pete's
sake?
The saddest part of this whole revelation is that for *Pete, it's
almost too late. He is graduating in less than a month and going out into the
world. He he will remember me as the teacher who always sold him short, hounded
him about his work, judged him without ever knowing him. (At least that's the
way I'll shamefully remember myself when I think of him.)
But the good news is, next time I'll know. And next time I run
across a student who grates my nerves, who cooks my grits, who burns my
biscuits, who makes my ears turn bright red and my skull feel like it's on
fire, there is always more to the story. And as a teacher committed to helping
all students learn, it's my job to find out the rest of the story and do my
very best to help them grow. And I know I'll never forget... for *Pete's sake.
