Miguel was a student in my third-grade classroom. He didn't talk much in front of his classmates, but he regularly completed assignments in class and worked successfully independently, in pairs and in small groups. However, Miguel struggled for months with completing a requirement I had established at the start of the school year.
Like many elementary teachers, I required my students to read at home 20 minutes a night. They could read by themselves, to a sibling or other relative, or even with their whole family. To ensure proof of the completed work, I asked parents to sign a sheet every week, and the students were responsible for turning them in by Friday.
Week after week, Miguel didn't have his sheet signed. When I asked him why, all he offered was a shoulder shrug. As a result, Miguel didn't earn our special reward time each Friday afternoon, which I used to encourage my kids to complete their homework for that week.
Common in many schools, the last half hour of Friday was reserved for this reward time. Students who earned it could select outside recess or inside games and drawing, while students who didn't earn it went to the "quiet room," which is where Miguel found himself week after week.
My initial belief was that, by holding Miguel to these high standards, I would push him to eventually work out on his own what to do to earn this reward. But it didn’t work out that way.
The quiet-room Fridays continued until the end of January, when a girl, who was Miguel's neighbor, told me Miguel didn't read at home because he didn't have any books at home.
I was flabbergasted. It never occurred to me, coming from my privileged background, that a student wouldn't have books at home. And here Miguel was being punished by a system he didn't create and had no voice to address. At the time, I labeled myself an "equitable educator," but this experience taught me the disconnect between my beliefs and my practices in a profound way.
From this event, I began to question the systems and practices in my classroom that served as barriers to my students' education. When a student wasn't successful with an activity, lesson or expectation, my first thought changed from, "It must be the student's fault" to "Did I do everything to support this student toward success?"
It was much too easy and convenient to blame everyone and everything else for lack of success: the student, the family, the school environment. Turning that powerful mirror on me—including my beliefs and teaching practices—not only opened my eyes to barriers that hindered success, but put the solution firmly in my locus of control. This shift helped me take actionable steps to support students more effectively.
The afternoon I spoke with Miguel’s neighbor, I gave Miguel a bag with books to take home. I told him to bring them back when he finished reading them and we would refill the bag (although, to be honest, I really didn't care if he brought them back). Guess what happened? That week, Miguel brought his reading sheet back signed, and earned his reward time. He did so for the rest of the year.
My senses were heightened as a result of Miguel. When coming up with schoolwork, I started to ask myself…
- What resources do my students need to complete this work (e.g., materials, technology, supplies and family support)?
- Do my students have the necessary resources at home to be successful?
- If not, how could I support my students with those resources?
Another immediate fix I found was that I reduced the amount of "take-home" work I was giving my kids and moved it into the classroom, where I had the resources available.
It took Miguel to change my teaching practices and challenge my unexamined beliefs about my students. If I had had that mirror ready at the start of the year, Miguel would have had what he needed right away. I vowed to always use that mirror from then on.
Hiller is a mentor to first- and second-year teachers in Oregon and a former member of the Teaching Tolerance Advisory Board.
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