Whispers

6/16/11

Critical Teaching Incident Narrative

A teacher is who I am and what I have always been.  Maybe it was being the 5th of 6 kids, or growing up with so many cousins that having two teams for kickball was never a problem.  Maybe it was because I started babysitting neighbors when I was 10. Maybe it was just my destiny. 

I have always been drawn to the kids who don’t quite fit their skin, who haven’t found their voice, who can’t see life beyond today.  They are prickly babes who spew profanities, boom threats, mutter mysterious mumblings, and sulk behind shadowed lids. They may act tough or afraid, their words may be coarse or sophisticated, they may be defiant or obedient, but they are all seasoned survivors.  School is not their friend. They seldom hear lauds whispered in their ear.  Somehow, early on, I realized I could be a good whisperer.

I was tasked with creating a Career Based Intervention program at a middle school, and teachers responded by nominating, in droves, the kids they couldn’t wait to get out of their classroom.  My class was a conglomerate of misfits.  Some were glad to be out of their regular classes and looked forward to reigning supreme in this new domain.  Some sulked and begged to return to their previous classes, desperate to be with their friends. Some looked furtively for the hidey holes in this new terrain, wanting only to be invisible again. How would I meet all of their needs? How could I construct a classroom where their gifts and talents would be affirmed and celebrated?

                       

Trevor, surprisingly, was one of the students placed in my class.  He came from a ‘good’ family and was popular in school.  But Trevor hated to read.  Trevor read at a 3^rd grade level.  Trevor thought he was stupid, and his family didn’t denounce it quite so vehemently of late.  Trevor heard my whisper. 

He was in 7^th grade when he came to my class. He sat slouched in his seat, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on his desk with a rhythmic tappity-tap-tap-tap, tappity-tap-tapptiy.  His long legs stretched out in front of him and his feet, in scuffed white and blue basketball shoes, laces dangling, gently bounced in time to his drumming.  His jeans and t-shirt were baggy, faded, and worn; a comfortable, clean, nondescript sort of worn.  His dark blond hair was uncombed. His head rested on a hand propped up by his elbow.  He had a soft face, one that smiled easily and often. But, when you looked closely, you saw shame peeking out of those eyes. 

           

Trevor had been in Special Education for 2 years.  He worked hard. He tried his best. His reading didn’t improve. He hated reading. I studied his IEP. I worked with the special education teacher and modified instruction.  I kept whispering. 

As a teacher of reading, I’m not sure which is more painful, being a struggling reader or watching one when a teacher announces those most dreaded of words: Sustained silent reading.  ‘Readers’ eagerly pull out books and turn to dog-eared pages. Their eyes gobble up the words as their shoulders almost imperceptibly ease forward, as if the words were magnetically pulling them in.  This is in comparison to the nonreaders, who can’t find their book, finished their book, don’t have a book, lost their book, or need a book. They can’t read the book they have, and they wouldn’t be caught dead reading a book at their reading level.  Trevor was an especially creative avoider.  He suffered bouts of thirst followed by restroom emergencies, and was plagued by dull pencils, broken binders, and malfunctioning backpacks. I kept whispering.

I conferenced. I modified strategies. I tried new resources.  I tried all my teacher tricks.  I lost more sleep. Trevor’s interests were motorcycles, fast cars and football.  I scoured the library and bookstores for appropriate reading level books on these, his favorite subjects. They were barely opened. I brought in Sports Illustrated, Muscle Car and Cycle World.  Trevor skimmed them for a day or so, but when I asked him about the articles, all he could tell me were the kinds of bikes and cars in the pictures and the size of their motors, torques, and tires. I kept whispering, but Trevor’s confidence continued melting away as his shame, cloaked in belligerence, grew. 

One day when I was talking with Trevor and he told me about a camping trip he and his dad had taken. His enthusiasm was infectious and soon we were comparing camping adventures. Beyond cars, motorcycles and football this was the most animated I had seen Trevor.  I wondered...?  A sparse collection of books on tape was available in my classroom, but I was undecided if they had been useful in increasing student enjoyment in, or motivation to, read. With low expectations and nothing to lose, I ordered an ‘extreme camping adventure’ book on tape and waited for it to arrive.  When it came in I sat down with Trevor and reviewed protocol. He agreed to read the book IF he could listen to the tape.  I agreed he could listen to the tape IF he read along in the book.

 I’ll never forget that day. He sat down on the beanbag chair, put the headphones on, and right before my eyes his body softened.  His mouth, slightly mouthing the words, was testament that he was reading along.  The next day I announced silent reading and Trevor eagerly pulled out his book and tape player and flopped down into the chair. His eyes gobbled up the words as his shoulders, almost imperceptibly, eased forward, as if the words were magnetically pulling him in. When he finished Hatchet he told me it was the first book he ever remembered reading all the way through.  It wasn’t to be his last.

Before he had finished that first book I ordered more so I would have them on hand. Where I previously had to cajole Trevor to get him to read, now he was asking me if he could have time to read. Trevor finished the last book on tape I had before I had a chance to order more. That turned out to be a very good day.  After complaining about not having the next book (tape) he wanted to read Trevor asked if he could read the book without the tape. I bellowed, “Of course you can!”  And he, did and I kept whispering it, too.