They Proved Me Wrong
Teaching is hard to explain. Even among those of us who do it. I’ve never seen a map or found a key that leads to or unlocks the door of student success. Honestly, it’s a different process and a different metric for every teacher. But today, as I tried to mask my exhaustion from three consecutive nights with less than three hours of sleep (even for me, that’s pretty extreme), I opened my door to welcome a group of 24 math students who always tend to clump up at the doorway, unintentionally blocking a different group of kids on their way out, then found myself in the middle of a surprising and rewarding moment.
The group dynamic for this particular class is worth noting. Whatever their individual challenges may be, academically, the group as a whole tends to nip at each other for the smallest of things, struggling to maintain healthy communication from day to day or week to week. As individuals, they have a ton of heart, but it’s the way they work, or don’t work, together that has been my greatest source of difficulty throughout the year. Even the most popular incentives tend to last only a few minutes before they return to those familiar patterns. So on Tuesday, I was joking with them about the way they clump up at the door and said, without being serious, that I had my doubts they could ever form a straight line as they waited for the door to open. I mentioned, again without being serious, that I would give them candy if they could surprise me.
For those who think, “Well, candy would motivate ANY kid,” not so. Kids get candy all the time. It’s at home. It’s everywhere. The realistic notion that they would even remotely care about that incentive nearly 24 hours later didn’t even cross my mind. Again, I wasn’t being serious.
And then it happened. I opened my door today and they weren’t just in a straight line. They were wrapped along the curve of the wall, giddily patient and completely silent, seemingly desperate to see my face when I walked into the hallway, to prove me wrong on an insigificant and silly idea, that they could work together, independent of myself or anyone else, to achieve something that would make them, and me, all smile. Better than all that, these kids then walked into my classroom, got right to work, and actually had one of their most productive learning days of the year. They never asked for or begged for the candy I had promised, but as my exhaustion gave way to a recollection of what I had said the day before, I dropped a single piece of candy at every work station and without selfishness or expectation, most of them just said thanks and got back to work.
Like I said. Teaching is hard to explain. I don’t have a road map or a key that can show someone how it all works. But sometimes… it just does.
