This spring, my principal asked who would be interested in teaching a two-week summer session for our own students. I found myself saying, “I’ll do it.” I had previously sworn off summer school as something I would never teach no matter how much I needed the money. But then “summer school” was something I’d only seen in the movies: large groups of unmotivated kids who had even less desire in the summer than they had during the school year. I imagined sweltering classrooms, hours of endless instruction and failure for all—myself included.
Why had I committed? I considered the 10th-grade students I would teach. There was Renaldo, who had avoided expulsion nine months ago by agreeing to go to counseling each week. Now he freely talks about wanting to get a degree in psychology to become a counselor himself. There was Bianca, who started high school boldly but quickly got caught up in drugs, missing at least a month of school at the end of ninth grade. There was Beth, one of the best writers of her class without even knowing it. Her pregnancy and subsequent motherhood had become an obvious obstacle. The list goes on. These were students I’d known for two years (and whose names, by the way, I've changed for this article). They were right at the midpoint of their high school careers. At another school or in another year, they might drop out. If they did not change, they would never earn diplomas.
I explained the deal to each of the selected students, all of whom had failed one or more semesters of ninth- or 10th-grade English. If they worked hard and completed all assignments their F’s would be changed to C’s and their D’s to B’s, making them eligible to apply to four-year colleges. All the students, even those who might be considered “difficult to manage,” were eager for this chance.
With a colleague, I designed a course that magnified just one of our yearlong standards, the art of persuasion. Each day, students read a debate about a chosen topic. Over two weeks, each student wrote persuasive letters, letters to the editors, an essay and finally a speech. I am sure the students’ favorite day, inspired by The Great Debaters, was debating the value of same-sex schools. We could not contain their respectful rivalry, and they continued for more than an hour.
My favorite day was the last. That’s when each student presented a speech on a topic of his or her choice. From students, many of whom were unable to finish a persuasive letter the year before, I heard the confident use of speech techniques like anaphora and the rule of three. Most of our students chose to argue in favor of tolerance—tolerance for gay marriage, tolerance for juvenile offenders, tolerance for immigrants. Before my eyes, students became advocates. They already had the passion, and now they could articulate it powerfully.
At the end, we asked students for feedback. We heard that it was the best summer school ever, that it was “actually fun.” What I took away from my first year of summer school was similar. I was shocked that I could enjoy extending my work year.
More important was the lesson about meeting the needs of students, our students. The course was successful because my colleague and I knew them. We knew the gaps in their writing, and we knew what would engage them. Why isn’t summer school always set up for this kind of success? Why is summer school so often centralized, far away the neighborhoods of student who generally need it most? If one of the biggest obstacles inner city kids face is a lack of trust in adults, why do we send them away from the schools where they have begun building connections?
I imagine the faces of Renaldo, Bianca and Beth when they see their improved grades. Students develop over time, each at their own pace and with their own stops and starts. To honor learning is to allow revision and second chances.
