I thought I’d take it back to my reading teacher days this week. As I have mentioned before, these were my favorite years of teaching. I moved from classroom to classroom all day long. It was a hot mess of planning, and I was completely exhausted by the end of the day, but I never had one boring day.
The classroom I am thinking about today had a couple of interesting students. To be quite honest, I am not completely sure these students were even in this classroom the same year. This room was across the hall and several doors down from the poop-sleeve story’s room. The teacher had been teaching several years, and not all of them had been in first grade. Like me, she had started in an older grade and moved down. She had moved from second; I had moved from third. Anyone who moves to a lower grade is a brave soul and has my deepest admiration.
One of the interesting students in the class was a young man I will call Brad (not his real name). I had Brad as a Reading Recovery student, as well as having him in my small reading group in the teacher’s classroom. Brad was not highly-motivated in a school setting. That is the kindest way I can describe Brad. I love children and I generally can extend a great deal of patience toward them. Brad tested me. I had thirty minutes for a Reading Recovery lesson. The walk from his classroom to my room should have taken two minutes. Brad could make it last fifteen. I would go and meet him at his room and walk him to mine to speed up the process. I literally had to tell him to walk faster every few feet. When we got there, he proceeded to do everything there at that same pace. He read very slowly. He wrote very slowly. He decided which color of marker to use very slowly. He was literally a sloth disguised as a 6 year-old boy. Everyone has his/her own pace, and I accept that. This was different. Brad was using a totally different dimension of time. If you think I was frustrated, imagine the poor classroom teacher! Brad never finished anything. He barely started anything. Before you start to think we were horrible people, Brad was capable of the work. Given outrageous amounts of time, he could actually produce grade-appropriate work. He just had no sense of urgency. NONE.
His classroom teacher and I had both spoken with his mother on the phone. We had urged her to give Brad more responsibilities at home. We asked her to have him practice doing things faster, to get in the practice of varying his pace. Then in October, we had conferences and were able to meet both of Brad’s parents. When Brad’s dad came in, it was like Brad had grown up and come back as an adult. Brad and his father looked just alike! When the teacher and I were going over Brad’s progress, it was clear that Brad’s looks were not all that he had gotten from his father. I attempted to explain Brad’s difficulties in a way that sounded as non-judgmental as possible. So, I said something along the lines of Brad having trouble getting started with things in a timely manner. Brad’s dad said, “Well, that’s because Brad’s just like me. See, I’m real meticulent. I won’t start nothing unless I know it’s going to be just perfect.” And as a professional, I should have just nodded my head. Or, I could have given suggestions on how we could have gotten Brad to become more motivated at school. But is that what I did? Nope. I could not help myself. Right out of my mouth came, “Yes. I can see that about you.” The other teacher’s eyes got really big and she just looked at me. I immediately realized that I needed to keep going, because she was not going to be able to hold it together. So I went on and did say what I should have said in the first place. But, really. Meticulent? It was just too ironic. From that moment on, meticulous left our vocabulary. We had a new word. And a lot more insight into Brad.
My other favorite student from that class was Michelle (not her real name). Michelle was also not inspired by academic endeavors. To be fair, this was first grade. None of the students were particularly scholastic. They all were basically just amusing us until their next recess. When I was in the teachers’ classrooms, the classroom teacher would see a small reading group, I would see a small reading group, and the rest of the students would go in pairs to learning centers spread throughout the room. When Michelle had learning center time, she believed herself to be enrolled in a fine arts academy. This started from the very beginning of the school year. The teacher had the learning centers very clearly marked and planned. The students knew who their partners were and they knew what to do in each center. Michelle would start at her center, with her partner, but it never lasted very long. Soon you would see her head bobbing. Next her arms would start to sway and move. Then she’d be up on her toes. Soon she’d be full-on twirling. Early in the year, she stayed somewhat confined to her general location. Her teacher would go over ask her to get back on task. That would last a few minutes. Then she’d go back to ballet. It was a daily thing. Often she would hum a little song to accompany her dance. Sometimes I would ask her to stop, sometimes her teacher would. Her teacher found it very distracting. I found it very hilarious. As the year progressed, so did the dancing. Michelle danced in the classroom. She danced on the playground. She danced when the class was walking down the hallway. She danced all day long. By May, she was no longer twirling in her location during centers. One day while I was reading with one of my groups, Michelle twirled right past the reading table and put on a mini Swan Lake right there in the back of the room. She was leaping and swirling all over the whole back of the classroom. It was spellbinding. The teacher just about lost it. I heard, “Michelle! Dance is NOT a center!”
Uhh. I hated to tell her this, but dance had been Michelle’s center all year long!
I sure miss first graders!!
