About twenty years ago my teacher duty found me monitoring elementary children who arrived before the 7:45 bell. Most days this included a bunch of bus kids whose drivers obviously didn't get the memo about NOT arriving before 7:45. In November of that year I noticed a new boy sitting by himself, keeping his head down. The next day he again sat by himself amidst kids greeting friends and beginning the day's sharing and telling. The third day I went over and sat next to him, starting up a conversation. He told me he'd already been in three different schools since school started and from there, we talked about lots of things. He became my early morning bench buddy; each morning our voices joined the others. About three days before Christmas break he handed me a small, brown paper sack saying, "I know this isn't much, but I wanted to get you something for Christmas. You have been my only friend." I opened the sack and inside was an slightly used artist's paintbrush. As I took it out he continued, "I found this at home and cleaned it up the best I could. I thought you might use it with your G.T. kids." I thanked him with a hug as the homeroom bell rang, went to my classroom, shut the door, and cried. I should have cried because of the selfless love he showed me, I should have cried because he felt he had no other friend --I should have, but no...I cried in shame, realizing I had no idea what his name was. Let me repeat that ...I had no idea what his name was. My teacher heart had seen a child in need and reacted to that need. Yet, I never thought to ask, "What is your name?" When we came back from Christmas break my bench buddy was gone. The family evidently had moved yet again. Of all the things that have happened to me in my teaching career, that one event --more than any other --forever changed the way I view each student. We do not teach children. We teach Eric and Katie and Burt and Karli --we teach Jody and Jason and Amy and Claire. It isn't enough to do the right thing for a student --we must value each, respecting who they are --someone with a name who is not like any other individual who has ever lived or ever will live. I framed the paintbrush and keep it hanging near my desk. Throughout the years, at some point all the kids I serve notice it and ask, "Why do you have a paintbrush in a frame?" I tell them my story. I want them to think about the kids who need good friends and their power to be that needed friend, and I want them to know they are more than my students --they are individuals that I am honored to know and learn with.
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Someone is almost always talking in my classroom. I admit I talk more than I should, but so much of what we do ends up in discussion, which is good. Students explain their thinking, share their beliefs, and both argue and defend their personal truths. Class discussion indicates engagement and enables students to understand that not everyone thinks as they do. The world of today's student and today's teacher is seldom still. Even when the noise of our high definition televisions, the chatter of our family and friends, and the vibes of our favorite ipod music disappear, we continue to hear the silent sounds transmitted through our fingertips as we communicate with our computer and smartphone apps. We are continually bombarded by exterior messages. Cliches are cliches for a reason; the saying, "Silence is golden," could now read, "Silence is rare." Yet, it is silence that enables the brain to reach into long forgotten files and memories, retrieving that which is called insight. I'm convinced poets honor that silence of the mind, knowing it is there that words show themselves, revealing passages that are both beautiful and true -- --that's why ten Halloweens ago I bought the tombstone... not one of those cheap, plastic looking ones you see at Walmart, but a tombstone that looked almost real; it even had a little wrought iron fence attached to the bottom. I brought it to school the day students were beginning a new writing assignment, setting it up at the front of the classroom after we'd gone over the rubric. Immediately, one of the kids said, "What's that for? Halloween is over." (Don't you love it when kids say just what you'd planned for them to say?) We talked about silence for a bit --interesting discussion, by the way --and then I explained that anytime the tombstone was out, it was Graveyard Time. That meant no talking, no whispering, no eye contact --nothing but the occasional, faint sound of a pencil moving. It was amazing how easily they took to Graveyard Time; even those kids who always have a question or a whispered comment got it. The result? Everyone's papers improved, including my own. I don't overuse Graveyard Time, saving it for those meaty assignments that requires inner reflection and the quest for inner wisdom. For some reason the tombstone works with all ages. Why? I'm not really sure. Perhaps they think the tombstone provides them a good excuse to rise to the next level and show just how smart they are, or perhaps they think that any teacher with a tombstone in her room is not to be messed with. I believe people need to be reminded of what they already know. Think about it --as they say, we take our health for granted until we find ourselves flat on our backs and are reminded of just how great feeling good is. When things are good, our awareness of that goodness fades more and more as the goodness continues, until taking for granted finds us seldom thinking of those good things at all. Throughout history even church attendance increases during a war, as each remembers that special gift called peace. I suspect it is impossible to even recognize something as good without that dreaded something bad serving as a sort of gauge. Getting accustomed to "the finer things in life" robs us of appreciation, making us apathetic. We all need gentle reminders from time to time reawaken us to just how fortunate we are. Our gifted programs provide students wonderful opportunities --chances to explore, invent, and create in a setting that is in keeping with who they are. Students begin a path that allows them "to do" and "to make" in ways that reveal the value of our programs. However ... ... with time, the "awareness" of what is accomplished in our programs can stagnant unless we continually find ways to share what students are doing. The community and our school need to see our students in action; they need more than the occasional article in the paper --they need to BE THERE in a manner that provides ongoing gentle reminders of why our programs are valuable. "People need to be reminded of what they already know." I have that on a sign near my desk. It's there to make me think about how crucial it is to deliberately plan ways for my students to reach out beyond the door of our classroom --something I know ...but something I sometimes forget without being reminded. Most gifted students take their ability for granted. In truth, all of us pretty much take all aspects of our lives for granted --walking, hearing, seeing, loved ones; even things we think we hate we take for granted --hard work, responsibility, time demands, chores --things that under certain conditions we are shocked to discover bring us joy. There is a sign in my classroom that states: "I will honor my undeserved ability by doing by best." At the beginning of the school year I tell students a true story that is personal to me because it is about a young mother I know and respect --a story that helps students begin to grasp the inherent expectations of exceptional ability: "Dana's" son was born normal, however within a few hours of going home from the hospital, he began languishing. He arrived at Childrens' Hospital in Little Rock after what must have been an extremely terrifying helicopter ride. Dana and her husband learned their son's bilirubin level had been misread at the hospital --the jaundice escalated and complication upon complication left this little boy with cerebral palsy. One day Dana heard a group of mothers discussing their son's t-ball teams. She heard comments such as: "They have my son in the outfield --he's should be playing shortstop," ...or "My son is really the best hitter, but he has to sit out several innings so everyone plays the same amount, and we always lose." Dana remained silent thinking, as she told me, "I only wish my son could run." Instead of being angry with her group of friends, a feeling I was certain she must have felt, Dana said she instantly forgave them in her heart. She explained by saying, "I know for certain that would have been me talking if my son had been like theirs; they never realized what they took granted." When I finish telling the story to my students, I ask them to talk about why they think I see a connection between Dana's story and the "undeserved" quotation on the wall. I admit that, depending on the age of the students, I sometimes have to cleverly direct their thinking to my point; however, I do not apologize for breaking that rule of teacher led discussion. Just as Dana's son did nothing to deserve his cerebral palsy, so too, not one of us has done anything to determine the abilities we were born with or that life sometimes thrusts upon us. The important point is, "What do you do with what you have?" Viktor Frankl, survivor of Auschwitz, said, "It doesn't matter what we expect out of life. What matters is what does life expect from us?" Gifted students need frequent reminders of this truth. Each of them is a steward of their undeserved ability. Do they use it to realize their full potential and serve others, or do they take it for granted, refusing to see their ability for what it is --an undeserved gift. |
AuthorPatricia Hesse --working with gifted students as young as 5 and as old as 18 for the past 24 years --remarkable kids! Archives
January 2014
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