It's not often I see and experience a complete 180 in a number of weeks. But it happened this semester.
Our story starts in a fourth grade classroom in south-central Indiana. My teaching partner and dear friend Sophie and I were placed in a town we had some pre-conceived notions about. Things like poverty and stories of racism. I read that 20% of men and women ages 25 and up have a high school diploma, and less than 5% have a college degree (I studied those statistics thoroughly, hoping I was missing something.) The way in which the school operates is the antithesis of everything our IU education has taught us to embrace. It was different, and differences can be daunting no matter how small.
We walked into our classroom and introduced our upbeat, smiling selves: Mrs. Wallace and Miss Skinner—two of IU’s best and brightest ready to make a difference. I tend to walk into new experiences with a degree of naivety and overconfidence. This was one of those times. Our classroom teacher, Mrs. C was unlike anyone we expected to find in an elementary classroom. She yelled. She deliberately belittled her students, threw their papers on the floor, and made a few kids cry—all in the first fifteen minutes. Rarely have I experienced such tension. Sophie and I fought back our own tears…it’s not supposed to be this way. Children should not be treated so unfairly. We wanted to cry with them, to hug them and wipe the tears from the faces we had just met. And I’m not being dramatic. This was a sobering day that darkened my rosy glasses. I remember wondering how will I survive until 3:30? I wasn’t sure I could make it, and I should not have to deal with this. These children should not have to deal with this. It was too much. I came home feeling helpless.
Gradually, we built some semblance of a relationship with Mrs. C, and with each day she softened. She began to trust Sophie and me a little bit more. One day Sophie said, “Maybe we’re here for her…” The thought that maybe we were there to encourage a hurting woman surprised me. But maybe Sophie was right.
Mrs. C let us teach more and more lessons. The kids were pretty much enthralled with anything we threw together. (They clapped at the end of a story I read.) Sometimes during our lessons, I would see Mrs. C smile in a cheerful way at something we or one of the kids said. As time went on I realized I was walking on eggshells less and less. She allowed us to interact with the kids in the way we do—to treat them as people with unique thoughts and valuable ideas. She may have disagreed with everything we said and did, but she let us do our thing. Although the students were not allowed to talk in class, Sophie and I created activities that allowed them to share their thoughts and to work with each other. We wanted to encourage rich discussion, to hear their ideas and why they think them. Slowly we fell in love with those kids. We began to see the energy and spunk and intellect that had been stifled all year. Even Mrs. C warmed up to us. She left what she called “love notes” for us: instructions for stacks of papers to grade…but still, she called them love notes. This was a big deal in a place we felt very little love.
Fast forward to today: our last day with our fourth graders, so full of that innocence and unmasked affection that children possess. I realized how attached I have become to them, how much I have learned from them. They taught me some valuable lessons. Not to judge a book by its cover, or a school by its reputation, or a classroom by their teacher. I learned to never take a student at face value, or a woman by her tough outer shell. They showed me that the soul has infinite depth.
A few months ago I would never have dreamed that Mrs. C would sing our praises or that she would thank Sophie and I so sincerely for our help. I am floored. And very much humbled. Ours is a story of unexpected change: attitudes, perspectives, and a complete change of heart. It’s a story of how my love for children has grown in a place where at first I found very little loveliness.
Sophie brought some treats today, sharing the meaning behind each candy in their bags: Smarties because they’re so smart (of course), 3 Musketeers to remind them to choose good friends…heart-felt sentimental stuff. Reminders to encourage them in sweet, truthful ways. To wrap things up we asked them to write “Advice for Mrs. Wallace and Miss Skinner…” mostly because we thought it would be hilarious to read their advice for us as future teachers. Instead of advice, most of them wrote thank you’s and, “we’ll miss you so much…”.
Here is Jaden’s advice, but first some context to understand him: he’s the student we’ve been told is “failing fourth grade” who came to life during a social studies unit we taught. He is bright and expressive and makes connections the other kids miss. He is lovable and makes me laugh. Here is Jaden’s advice scribbled on a slip of paper:
“most important: remember me.”
We hugged goodbye and again Jaden said, "don't forget me." I told him I will always remember him. Most important: these are the kids who are shaping me.
