Teacher's Journal
I fall awake at 4 AM thinking about the kid who has turned in NO classwork OR homework all quarter, thinking I have failed him, we have failed him, his parents have known this for weeks and haven't shown much interest in it, the whole situation is full of FAIL and it's not even halfway through the year and there's no reason to think stuff's gonna get better at all.
I bump into his Special Ed caseworker. She's all smiles. "Look," she says in response to my bleak outlook, "he's not cutting himself anymore. This year he smiles and makes eye contact and talks to people. He shows up for school and doesn't run away halfway through the day anymore. All of that is HUGE and has never happened before. He's making friends. He even did an oral report even though he was terrified. He doesn't scream or throw things any more, at least not in your class. He says he wants to stay in your class - that's HUGE. He's never said he wanted anything except chocolate before. He feels like there's someplace he belongs, someplace he feels comfortable, someplace he wants to be, wants to stay. That's never happened before. Now we just have to tell him that in order to stay, he's going to have to actually start turning in some work." And, sure enough, today he produced a pile.
I have become a specialist in the weirdest of the weird, which I suppose should come as no surprise to anyone. Sometimes I look at kids - insanely bright and vividly bizarre ones in particular - and have no idea if I'm teaching them anything or not. Then their parents and social workers and shrinks tell me since being in my class they've stopped talking about suicide and started looking forward to going to school every day, and every day they come home talking about things I said in class, usually stuff I can't put on the test, stories about Lesotho and my cats and playing in bands and glow in the dark sunglasses and Erastothenes and Colonel Sanders and Ada Byron Lovelace and whatever. Stuff my principal wishes I would shut the fuck up about since it won't be on the standardized state tests.
I hate this job.
I desperately want to leave.
I may be saving this kid's life.
I don't know how.
I'm going to bed.
I bump into his Special Ed caseworker. She's all smiles. "Look," she says in response to my bleak outlook, "he's not cutting himself anymore. This year he smiles and makes eye contact and talks to people. He shows up for school and doesn't run away halfway through the day anymore. All of that is HUGE and has never happened before. He's making friends. He even did an oral report even though he was terrified. He doesn't scream or throw things any more, at least not in your class. He says he wants to stay in your class - that's HUGE. He's never said he wanted anything except chocolate before. He feels like there's someplace he belongs, someplace he feels comfortable, someplace he wants to be, wants to stay. That's never happened before. Now we just have to tell him that in order to stay, he's going to have to actually start turning in some work." And, sure enough, today he produced a pile.
I have become a specialist in the weirdest of the weird, which I suppose should come as no surprise to anyone. Sometimes I look at kids - insanely bright and vividly bizarre ones in particular - and have no idea if I'm teaching them anything or not. Then their parents and social workers and shrinks tell me since being in my class they've stopped talking about suicide and started looking forward to going to school every day, and every day they come home talking about things I said in class, usually stuff I can't put on the test, stories about Lesotho and my cats and playing in bands and glow in the dark sunglasses and Erastothenes and Colonel Sanders and Ada Byron Lovelace and whatever. Stuff my principal wishes I would shut the fuck up about since it won't be on the standardized state tests.
I hate this job.
I desperately want to leave.
I may be saving this kid's life.
I don't know how.
I'm going to bed.