I know my students.Masses of awkward seventh graders swarm the halls of my rural middle school each day,hauling backpacks over one shoulder,talking and shuffling along the tile hallway floor from class to class.I watch them like a general from my post,my classroom door,and smile at the fact that I can call each one by name.I know their secrets,their stories.Dora slouches and is shy,and I know it is because she spends all her time at home trying not to get noticed,so she won’t feel the brunt of her stepfather’s angry hand.Jay can pitch like a tenth grader,and all the girls swoon when he and his blond hair strut by,but I know he doesn’t really even like baseball that much he plays because his dad wants him to and he is too scared to ask out the girl he likes.The kids think Keith is just the class clown,but I know of his dreams to become an astronaut and I’ve recommended him for space camp.I know my students because I am their writing teacher.They trust me with their stories and so I am given the privilege of having a secret bond with each and every one of them.I teach my students about the power of words,and I try to let them find release and expression through writing.We learn to trust each other in writing class because we learn how hard it is to write openly and honestly,and we learn that sharing your words takes courage.I see courage every day in my classroom,and I am always amazed at the words that come from my students’hearts.One such example of courage took place during author’s chair,a sharing session at the end of our writer’s workshop in which students volunteer to share what they have written.
We had a new student to the school,Al.Al was small and,with his dimpled cheeks and baby face,he looked younger than his classmates.In fact,when Al was first introduced to the class two weeks earlier,one student said,“You’re not in the seventh grade.You’re a baby.”To that,Al quickly responded,“I’m Al Billslington,and I am in the seventh grade.”Despite his obvious courage,Al had been with us for only a short while and was still trying to fit in.So I was a little surprised when he volunteered to read during author’s chair.I had one of those teacher moments,when I smiled and nodded for him to read,while inside I said a silent prayer that the other students would not tease the new kid after he read.The room fell silent,and Al began to read.“If I had one wish,it would be to meet my dad...”He started out loud and clear and held the attention of my usually restless seventh graders as he read on for what seemed like fifteen minutes.He told of how he had never known his father,who had left the family when Al was a baby.
He shared the intimate details of his struggles to be the only man in the house at such a young age,of having to mow the lawn and fix broken pipes.He revealed to us the thoughts that raced through his mind constantly about where his father might be and why he might have left.My eyes scanned the room for snickering faces of seventh-grade kids who I knew were prone to jump at a weakness and try to crack a joke,but there were no snickers.There were no rolling eyes or gestures insinuating boredom or pending attacks.All of my seventh-grade students were listening,really listening.Their eyes were on Al,and they were absorbing his words like sponges.My heart was full.Al continued on,telling of nightmares at night,of never knowing a man so important to him,yet so unreal.I could hear his voice growing shaky as he read such passionate and honest words,and I saw a tear roll down one of his dimpled cheeks.I looked to the audience.There were tears on Jessica’s face and on the faces of a few others seated quietly,intently listening.They are letting him do this,I thought.They are allowing him to share something he perhaps has never shared before,and they aren’t judging him or teasing him.I felt a lump in my own throat.Al finished,struggling now to read his last sentence.“If I had one wish,it would be to meet my dad,so I wouldn’t...”His tears were rolling now,and so were ours,“...so I wouldn’t have to close my eyes in bed every night just wondering what he looks like.”Without any cue from me,the class stood up and applauded.Al smiled from ear to ear as they all rushed him with hugs.I was floored.This is why I teach.I teach because I am allowed to learn the stories behind the faces.I teach because I can watch kids grow and laugh and learn and love.I teach because of students like Al.
