A New Leaf

Fall 2008

After writing the journal topic on the whiteboard one day with a brightly colored red marker that smelled faintly of sweet cherries, I gingerly sat down at my seat and set my classroom timer for ten minutes.  Since some of my students cannot read cursive, and since I demand that they learn and become accustomed to cursive, I was obliged to read the journal prompt to the students out loud.

“Describe a time when you ‘turned a new leaf’ or changed like the character in our short story,” I announced.  The class set to work, pens and pencils scratching away at notebook paper.  Some students sat and pondered the question, wondering how they would ever fill half a page on a topic that didn’t require a right or wrong answer.  While some teachers may relish in what is sometimes considered “down time” in a classroom—also translated as “time when the teacher can take a breather”—I knew that the magical spell would be broken sometime during the course of the next ten minutes.

Sure enough, my prediction came true.  A few minutes into the journal writing, Steven, a student with a mop of curly chestnut hair and a roguish grin on his face, spoke up.  “Mrs. Hunt?”

“What?” I replied, wishing that he would just come to my desk instead of interrupting the whole class.

“I have this relic from World War II at my house and I found this site online about skinheads.”

“What?” I answered, wondering what synapse in his brain had fired off that thought.  And to change the subject:  “Are you finished with your journal?”

“Yes.”

As usual, I requested that he show me his work.  He had written a few lines that promptly answered the question, but did not really have the description or explanation that I wanted.  “Steven, you know this is not enough,” I told him, hurt that he didn’t consider my journal topic worth more than two sentences.

Steven listened half-heartedly, only really interested in telling me more stories.  “Guess what I did last night?” Steven loudly asked.  Of course, I was not given a chance to respond, and he continued to tell me about World of Warcraft (WOW)—his favorite online game—and someone that he met online while playing WOW.  Usually, Steven talked so fast that I really couldn’t understand everything he was saying, and sometimes I didn’t have the background knowledge in online gaming or technology to follow his thoughts.

I looked around uneasily and realized that other students were also listening to Steven’s stories.  Great, I thought to myself, now Steven’s distracted other students from their work as well.  Realizing that my beloved down time was dwindling, I quietly told Steven that he needed to go back to his seat and read his AR book for the last few minutes of journaling.  Of course, I couldn’t let Steven get by with interrupting the class, so I also disciplined him by marking his planner yellow—a warning.  As usual, Steven was offended, and he huffed and puffed all the way back to his seat, suddenly crushed and in a foul mood.

Eventually, the class was ready to move on.  Once again, as I had so many times before, I attired myself in my actress’ garb and pretended that I was happy and eager to introduce an engaging activity to the class.  Inside, though, I wasn’t.  I was confused by Steven and his ability to unnerve me.  Sighing, I wondered again why Steven was so intent on disrupting my class with his comments.

But it would take me half of the school year to understand this.

Summer 2009

I am reminded of Steven again during a writing session at Marshall University’s Writing Project one day.  The topic of our journal, What have your students taught you? brings back memories of Steven and my second block class all over again.  I wonder what have my students taught me?  What has Steven taught me?  Other teachers, I notice, are writing with short, even strokes; their foreheads are lined with crease marks, and I imagine that this topic has probably emboldened many teachers to really speak their minds.  Except for me.  I sit in my swivel chair dumbly asking myself over and over what I had learned from Steven, possibly the most difficult student of my second year of teaching.

I am struck by a thought, and my pen eventually begins to form my thoughts on paper.  I write about how Steven has taught me one of the most important lessons that I think a teacher can learn:  don’t take away the spark, creativity, and personality of a student.

Steven and I did not always see eye-to-eye.  He would speak up in class about what I called the most random thoughts on the planet, and I had no idea why.  But, eventually, Steven and I came to a mutual, unspoken agreement, and suddenly Steven didn’t have quite as many marks in his planner as he did at the beginning of the year.  I must confess, I didn’t really understand all at once what had changed.  Perhaps I was just learning to cope with Steven, to tune out his ramblings.  Or maybe Steven was more obedient by the end of the year.  Yet, this is really not what happened at all.  Looking back, Steven’s behavior did not change over the course of the year because he continued to tell me and the class stories about World of Warcraft, his time at Fairland, who he met online, World War II stories, and other tidbits from his confined teenage world.

So, who changed?

While writing my journal for Summer Institute, I suddenly realize that it was me.  I am the one who changed, not Steven.  At the beginning of the year, I didn’t understand why Steven was so eager to tell me about his personal life and his hobbies.  No matter how much I tried to quell this behavior, it never worked.  I realize now that this is because Steven felt secure and at ease in my class.  I didn’t lecture for long periods of time or hand out worksheets for students to complete on their own.  Little did I know that Steven realized this, and he understood that to mean that I would be willing to listen to his comments as well.  After all, he reasoned, if a teacher plans such fun activities and is willing to have discussions about Hitler, gangs, and other interesting topics, then surely she’ll want to listen to me.  He also believed that I, unlike so many of his other teachers, would allow him to simply be himself in class instead of trying to control the students, making unresponsive robots out of them.

In reality, I do not think I had an epiphany or any sudden change of heart about Steven.  There was really no defining moment during my second year of teaching that made me think to myself Aha! I now understand Steven’s behavior.  Rather, it was a gradual understanding.  As I got to know my second block class and myself as a teacher, I understood that I had to give up some of the control and let my students be themselves.

Now, as I sit in the Sacred Writing circle with other teachers, a little more mature than I was at the beginning of last school year, I want to share this important lesson that I think all teachers should heed:  allow students to be themselves.  Don’t suppress their creativity or the individual that they are and will one day come to be.

So, you see, Steven didn’t change.  Instead, it was I, the teacher, who turned over a new leaf.

Advertisement