I Think You Can: Graduation

One mom.  

One campus. 

Twenty professors.  

Two high schools placements. 

Three middle schools placements. 

20 courses. 

60 credit hours.  

560 hours commuting.

 2 PRAXIS tests. 

Quizzes.  

Projects. 

Exams. 

Comps. 

Lit Reviews. 

96 lesson plans 

and three children. 

It is two years.  I only need to survive. 

If I can get through tomorrow...

I THINK I CAN.

If I can get through this week...

I THINK I CAN.

If I can get through this project...

I THINK I CAN.

Then the moment finds you; a tipping point.  

The place where I think I can, I think I can, I think I can gives way to I think I did. 

     My moment occurred about two weeks before graduation.  My grip released, my jaw relaxed and I realized the mountain was behind me.  I survived and I grew in ways I could never imagine. 

If I wrote a letter, what would I say to my twelve-year-old self?  Nothing.  I know she will make it because here she is thriving at forty-three. A better question is “What do I say to the twelve-year-old sitting in front of me?”

    It is two weeks after my moment and I sit in my cap and gown waiting for my degree to be conferred.  There, among my fellow student teachers, I begin to feel the weight.  In one short breath, I will hear my name, walk across the stage, and shake hands.  As I cross over from student to teacher, I understand it is my duty to pay forward this feeling of relief, of pride, of exaltation.   I’ve climbed the mountain.  I know the way. 

     Every student at every desk deserves this feeling. 

     My journey did not start with graduation.  It started with a mother finding the time to read to her children every night.  A father who, frustrated, wrestled through another night of homework.  The steadfast support of grandparents picking up, dropping off and cheering on.  The love of a sixth-grade teacher who still emails me every May after thirty years; or my eighth-grade teacher who follows all of her students on Facebook from her nursing home. 

     I am that teacher now.  It will take a lifelong, marathon of dedicated love for my students.  I sit in my chair in my cap and my gown and I pray I have it in me.  I think I can.

     I know that graduation is not the end of learning because learning itself is gradual.  Each step, big or small, is planned, performed and punctuated with “I think you can.”  Each smile, each handshake, each hand written note says “I think you can.”  Each pattern I find, each assessment I make, each habit I push aside brings another in an endless series of “I think you can.” Then I see the shift.  I recognize the moment because it is my moment seen in the eyes of someone else. 

And I know I have chosen wisely.

As I sit writing tonight, like I have every night for two years, I know I can.  My daughter says “Mommy, you graduated.  I thought you were done” and I smile, “No sweetie.  I am just getting started.”  

This post is inspired by and dedicated to the amazing teachers at Blackstone Valley Prep who, every day, tell my children "I think you can."  You can find a reflection of their work at BVP Musings.

Selective Listening

Excuses are the antithesis of opportunity.

     As a teacher I find it easy to fall into the trap of "He is a _________, so he won't be able to do it", instead of "He is a _____________ so I need to _____________", When I feel myself slipping, when my balance is off, I remember my friend Frank. 

      Students like Frank, today, are considered morbidly obese. It was that day in PE we all dreaded, Frank most of all. We needed to make the mile run. Students would run, jog, walk or meander through the task with little in the way of thought or effort. For most teachers, most years, looking at Frank was the only wordless excuse necessary. He would never finish. He had never finished. This year was different. 

      As Frank began to struggle, our teacher dropped his clipboard and started running the mile next to him. Step by step, they ran through the class period. They ran through the bell. They ran as long as Frank needed. I do not know which excruciating footfall had the greatest impact for Frank, but a quiet moment came when he changed.

      Two days later Frank approached the PE teacher and asked to join our Cross Country team. His running stats were five to ten times longer than those of his teammates, but he finished. He listened to his peers complain about bringing down their average, but he finished. He got sick at every meet, but he finished. Sometimes it was after the awards ceremony started, but he finished.

      Eventually, the team realized what was happening with Frank was bigger than all of us. His teammates would finish their race, find Frank and finish their race again by his side. Frank became the heart of our Cross Country team because his teacher heard his excuses and taught him how to finish the race. 

      Hearing an excuse and accepting an excuse are two different things. Frank's teacher created a " No Excuses" environment without ever losing sight of Frank. He saw his student's excuse and met that excuse with understanding, scaffolding his teaching to meet Frank's need. Rue Ratray said something similar, "The very best teachers aren't just No Excuses. The Know Excuses. They don't accept them. But they know them and manage them." 

      Motherhood has convinced me of the importance of "selective listening," the art of processing a child's excuses by throwing away obstacles and using the rest as a teaching tool. Frank, his teacher and their perseverance guide me reaction to a student's excuses and continue to help me find the right balance within my own classroom.

Being Able

     My classroom teacher “pushes in” or shares time with an English Language Learner (ELL) class during the day and where she goes, I learn.  The English Language Learners are a part of her regular classroom, but they spend some time every day in a classroom specifically designed for those learning English.  The ELL support was divided into four levels by ability instead of grade level.  For example, my classroom teacher’s ELL class consisted of third level learners in grades six, seven and eight.

     It was in this ELL classroom I was able to work with a boy named we will call Able.  Able was struggling to write a biography about the life of Eminem.  He was flipping through his book, brow wrinkled, staring at the empty page in front of him.  As I walked by, he refused to look up.  I squatted next to him in order to make eye contact.   I began our conversation by asking about his biography topic.  From there we patiently worked through his outline adding detail and discussing parts of Eminem’s life and why they were important.  We worked hard to communicate with one another at times.  There were moments in which I forgot I was talking to an ELL learner and probably should have approached our task differently.  Yet, once he opened up, Able was engaged and engaging.  It took both time and effort, but his outline had more detail and I could see he was proud of what he was able to accomplish. 

     I can speak to the use of media to engage diverse learners or about respecting and appreciating the diversity in or school.  Yet, echoing the usual headline is not the same as making headway as a new teacher. After reflecting on my day, the lesson shaping me as a teacher comes directly from Able’s parents.  When he was born, his parents held him in their arms and named him “Able.”  They named him not because of what he did, he was probably no more than minutes old.  Their focus was on what he will do because of what he is “able”.  His parents believed in him.  His classroom teacher believes in him.  With a little help, Able believed in himself.   Supporting diverse learners begins with understanding each student as "Able" and empowering students like Able to find and believe in what they are able to do.

It may be easier for the parents to see hope for their newborn because their child has no past.  My challenge is to begin teaching each day with that rocking chair moment; seeing my students as small, fragile and full of future.