I became a teacher to make a difference. Now whether I do is up for the future of our children to reflect. I never imagined this profession would be so difficult, and also the most difficult task I would tackle thus far in my 32 years.
In my credential program, my teachers explained to me the cutting-edge ways of engaging students. They touted ease in delivering instruction that would be well-received and appreciated by our young people. They reassured us that our kindness, our cooperative spirits, and our passion would guide these students to greatness. What they did not prepare us for was an energy and complexity in their own lives we would need to come to acknowledge existed and learn to embrace. Then, we could empathize. Then they might open up.
Imagine these white-bred, middle-class, educated teachers knowing LITTLE TO NOTHING about their everyday lives. Imagine us approaching their mindset. Four-year-olds are exposed to issues some of us would never see or experience in our lifetime. Drugs, alcohol, abuse, neglect, guns, malnutrition, homelessness, revolving "friends" of their adult relatives, and/or incarcerated parents. At Cheyenne's house last spring break, the S.W.A.T. team pounded down the door and hauled both of her parents off to jail. She relayed the story with everyday ease. It is absolutely amazing what skills our students DO develop: Protective instincts, tolerance within an array of social situations, and such a vulnerability to anyone who will love them. Role models and nurturing situations at home are most likely not the reason for their tolerance. These students are still babies. Their social maturity is lacking. No one has their back - truly has their back - so why should they trust that a bunch of ignorant educators will be there for them? We have little but our words and appearance to recommend us.
I spent the first couple of years out of the credential program feeling exhausted, frustrated, alone - and many of the days feeling like a failure. Was I failing these kids? I had no experience in the kinds of situations they would go home to every night. Furthermore, I had no skills or understanding of what to do to bring them on board. I felt that many did not see the value of education.
In many of my students' families, no one is educated beyond junior high school level. Many of their role models at home are continually "busted" by those in the community who are meant to protect and serve. Police officers, teachers, and people in business suits - these are not people who spend every day in their neighborhoods helping them get food on the table or trusting them to take care of their families. These are people families hope to avoid on a daily basis. A phone call home means something negative.
I will never forget my first home visit. I planned a trip to Malik's home. He was a student in my very first year at Jasper Elementary. A fifth grader dealing with depression, an extremely low self image, a drugged-out and absent mother, and a narcissistic and avoidant father. He feared for his life, his general well-being, and whether he would make it to be an adult. Malik's family was living in government-assisted living, a special program that helped families recover from drugs, alcohol, abuse, as well as other life-threatening situations. By the time these families made it to CAPTA, they were in dire need of support. CAPTA was the home of many of our students at Jasper Elementary. Malik's home was by all outer appearances was ok and clean. Inside, though, the father slept on the floor with both of his kids - Katie and Malik - on one mattress on the floor. The father did not invite my co-worker and me into the home. I cannot imagine what it looked like inside. We sat on the front porch, which was about 6 feet by 3 feet in space. The father sent the kids away to play. We sat there for 45 minutes while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and talked about his woes in life. Every time we turned the conversation positively to Malik, he would inadvertently find a way to bring it back to himself. I remember leaving Malik's house feeling so upset and sad. This father was all he had left; and it didn't look like this man had anything to give to either of them. What would my role be in this boy's life? I still wonder.
In class, Malik sat in his seat with a drugged-out and completely apathetic presence. I tried every trick in the book to motivate him - enthusiasm, rewards, behavior contracts, one-on-one time. I remember him taking to building blocks during lunch one day. Building blocks delighted him. I remember thinking that this developmental stage is probably the last time he felt somewhat happy and nurtured. Kindergarten. Or do they even play with blocks in Kindergarten anymore? This day was powerful: Not only because he enjoyed something...but because it was the only time he did. Blocks never worked again. My friend in RSP worked with him a bunch, and others were involved from time to time, but he only continued to spiral into the next year. In sixth grade, he brought a blade to school and eventually got expelled. I wonder where Malik is now.
What will it take to make a difference in his life? How can he become a contributing citizen and friend to others? What does it take to help heal a child who has been so badly burned and let down in so many ways? Although there may not be a realistic answer for children like Malik or Cheyenne, I keep searching for ways.
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