Printer-friendly versionZach was one of those kids that the fifth-grade teachers warn the sixth-grade teachers about at middle school orientation. He was a bully who had been shook up, written up, worked up and written off and he showed up for school every single day. His reputation arrived in my classroom three months before he did, and I was surprised when I first met him. He was a scrawny, short, African-American kid who was dressed to the nines and armed with a killer smile and a street-smart attitude.
As a language arts teacher, I teach six periods a day to three different groups of students. By October, Zach’s schedule was changed three different times due to his negative behavior and complaints from parents about his bullying. He was failing all his classes. The school seemed unable to find a chemistry that could help him. I joked with Zach after the final move that he had test-driven all of my classes and no matter what he was not moving again.
Now it was January. Zach had failed two grading periods of my class and was in danger of failing for the year. I was teaching a mini-unit on Martin Luther King Jr. and the civil rights movement. We explored the “I Have a Dream” speech and did a gallery walk of the civil rights movement. I followed that up with a lesson on Negro Leagues baseball and Jackie Robinson. One day during these lessons, Zach raised his hand and asked me a loaded question that I wasn’t really prepared for. He said to me, “What do you care for?”
Initially overwhelmed with the need to correct his grammar, I shoved that urge down and analyzed the question. I realized immediately that it was a raw, nakedly emotional question. But I wanted to be sure I understood him correctly. So I asked, “Care for what?” He responded the way I thought he would: “Why do you care so much about black people?” It took me a single heartbeat to answer the question. I said, “Zach, I care about all people.” It was the only thought that came to my mind, and it was good enough for him.
I am not about to proclaim that some sort of miracle occurred as a result of that exchange. But what did develop was a gentler sort of mutual respect. Zach currently has an 82-percent average in my class for the third grading period, I haven’t sent him to the office in almost two months and he apologizes without my prompting him to do so when he hurts someone else’s feelings. As far as I am concerned, it is a move in the right direction. Zach feels accepted, appreciated and understood in my classroom. He doesn’t like to hurt me, disappoint me or let me down in any way. We have reached a common ground, and I am happy and he is thriving. It is a good, good thing.
Zach is one of those kids that I, as a sixth-grade teacher, will warn the seventh-grade teachers about: Be kind and gentle with him, for he has great potential if you nurture it and teach him how to harness it.
Spain is a middle school language arts teacher in New Jersey.
Comments
“Bullying” is a fashionable
“Bullying” is a fashionable topic now, in schools and colleges, and even among university staff and faculty, and in the workplace in general.
It’s the wrong term. What we need is more love, period. To talk about bullying is not only a euphemism, it’s also a negative attitude that accepts hatred as a fact of life and asks that we reduce it, a little--if we have the time and energy . . .
But with love we can end hatred and the fear that is always behind it, now, fully—not permanently, of course, but we can end hatred fully each time we answer it with love. Any other answer feeds the hatred. This is science, not sentiment, I think.
Sure, there are a few psychopaths out there who need to be isolated (though not many are children . . .), but in general, a bully is asking for love—just awkwardly expressing the question negatively.
The second aspect of this little story that is equally important is that the teacher was modeling and also explicitly teaching social justice—to everyone. That is what rang true to this boy (and, I’m sure, to many of his classmates and to many colleagues of this teacher as well). This is not a tear jerking account of a personal relationship, it’s something much more relevant to our work as educators (parents, police, etc.)—it’s an account of a loving professional relationship, one that helped a particular boy outgrow some deep and dysfunctional defensive habits and start to feel himself a responsible part of a larger society—a society more diverse than family or neighborhood—and one that contains some wonderful people that he wants emulate.
The defensive habits and behaviors that gave Zach the reputation of “outlaw” within the often suffocating world of the school could well land him in prison and/or an early grave if he can’t abandon them, given the deep seated racism and hostility to youth of our present, ailing, society.
This is our real curriculum: "one love," as Bob Marley put it.
Well said! I hope people are
Well said! I hope people are paying attention.