Cookie Monster

Joe Tamel over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

One of my first teaching assignments was in a middle school on the east side of Milwaukee, a place known to its natives as a bastion of quaint and kitschy restaurants and shops. To this day, some of my favorite places to visit and imbibe sundry types of brewed drinks are in that part of town. However, Milwaukee, like so many of America’s major cities, is also a highly segregated metropolis harboring impoverished neighborhoods, under-served people, and a deep, unremitting prejudice that challenges my long-since revoked belief that I would encounter increased racial strife the farther south that I moved. 

I don’t acknowledge this casually. I think it’s imperative to establish that I was a 23-year-old white man working amidst an almost exclusively black school population. In addition, I was convinced that I wanted to work with high school students, not with 11-year-olds. To that point in my nascent career as an educator, I’d not exhibited patience either for rambunctious pre-adolescents or for jejune curricula. Back then I considered myself a member of the intelligentsia who wished to engage students at the peak of Bloom’s taxonomy. If I spent too many hours in a day anywhere near the bottom of that pyramid, toiling with rote memorization and fact recall, I would suffer irritable bowel syndrome. Obviously, I believed this school that contained grades 6-8 and posted security at its doors would fail to satisfy my aspirations. 

I wasn’t prepared for what followed.

First, the mentor teacher to whom I was assigned was not far along in her own career. She was young and inexperienced for a “veteran” and had taken me on as a student-teacher without having yet completed the required training necessary to tutor one. Like many school systems, MPS was desperate to breathe fresh air into its culture via a youthful and energized teaching force, but it lacked the necessary human infrastructure to accommodate them. Therefore, similarly callow and inexperienced teachers were rallied to the cause and enrolled into the accreditation course so they could model their unrefined teaching skills for new cadets like me. It was your basic “babies-raising-babies” scenario which never turns out well.

So, I worked alongside a well-meaning mentor who was overwhelmed by her responsibilities before I arrived. Upon reflection, I’m not sure she was much more prepared to teach than I was. A victim of the self-perpetuating failed system she, too, would have benefitted from having a mentor work alongside her on everything from lesson planning to classroom management. Instead, the skills she modeled for me—now viewed from the vantage of hindsight—were a committed work ethic combined with some abysmal instructional habits. Most Monday mornings we spent as much time during our planning sessions rehashing the steps she’d taken to get blitzed with her friends the previous weekend as we did discussing the best way to teach students how to recognize a noun—a challenge made increasingly difficult when many of them struggled to even read.

Wait. This is somewhat misleading. She could fixate on her active weekend lifestyle but not because she eschewed or disregarded curriculum. Our chats concerning best practices related to the transmission of information and skills were hindered by the reality of our setting. Here, teaching was less about content or pedagogy than it was about stratagems for babysitting a mob. When a school district assigns 35 hormonally charged, starved-for-attention, and recalcitrant middle schoolers to your classroom, the ensuing cacophony is dizzying. I daily exited that building with a grinding headache and a budding appreciation for vows of silence.

What I learned about classroom management from my mentor was to meet the noise of the crowd with a greater noise of my own. Really. This was a tactic. Scream louder than they do. Oh…and threaten, often. This was how students heard and understood you; this was the lingua franca of middle school. Each forty-minute period consisted of shouting above the din of highly distracted, confrontational, and insolent children, continually redirecting their attention back to the chalkboard and away from random projectiles, breaking up fights (both verbal and physical), and answering the same question a dozen times. Putting together a seating chart was like solving the Rubik’s Cube only in this scenario the various colors and rotating squares were warring factions of students who were as likely to call each other a “nappy headed Mo-fo,” as they were to slap each other for “lookin’ at me funny.” 

I broke up more fights than I collected assignments during those few months. Looking back, I’d like to say that while Language Arts fell by the wayside I provided the education for those kids that the situation demanded like how to resolve differences, how to treat others with a modicum of respect, how to exhibit self-control in a volatile situation, but I’m sure I failed in this task as well. Worse, I disregarded the small percentage of students who were motivated to learn amidst the fires I was putting out around them.

During this time, I met a boy who, for the purposes of this communique, I will call Drew. He was 11 years old with the crooked and discolored teeth of a Rugrats character and dark blotches that mottled his complexion near his left temple and along the jaw line. His equine neck looked incongruous on his slight shoulders, and his ears stuck out like suitcase handles. Drew wore the same striped t-shirt and filthy jeans every day and failed to practice suitable personal hygiene. While he was not alone in these habits, his diminutive size and his exasperating nature often made him the target of ridicule. One of the smallest boys in the 6th grade, he more than made up for his limited stature with his mouth and with his hands. He was vocal and touchy, an explosive combination especially when it came to girls. In short, he was a menace—the linchpin of the grenade that daily erupted in class.

We moved Drew’s seat assignment constantly. It didn’t matter which quadrant of the room we placed him, soon he would be under the skin of a nearby student or out of his desk challenging someone who’d “said sumpin’ nasty,” to him. It didn’t much matter where he started the class because Drew usually ended up in the hallway to await a conference with one of us, and when we’d finally get around to stepping out of the classroom to address his behavior, he’d be gone. Most of the time we didn’t have the energy to locate him. Everything was easier without him present. I learned to stop caring and left the responsibility of his whereabouts to the “real” teachers.

We never worried that Drew would disappear from school. It was much safer and more comfortable for him to wander around the hallways or to hang out in bathrooms or in the gymnasium or on the playground and mix it up with other kids. When he got bored, or caught by an administrator, he’d reappear in class to start the process all over again. I suspect that there were some teachers who cared, who chased him down and tried to hold him accountable, but the rumors I heard amongst the 6th grade teaching team divulged that Drew’s situation was like so many other kids in the school: his mom was a crack addict, his dad was persona non grata, and his grandma was doing the best she could just to get him onto a school bus every day. There was no one coming to an after-school meeting for this child. The incorrigible and relentless behaviors we daily witnessed were ten times worse in Grandma’s house than in our own “structured” environment and kicking Drew out of school was not an option considering his antics were relatively harmless to broader society as long he was contained in our space. 

Drew was in my 1st period class which meant I saw him first thing every morning. Meanwhile, a few weeks into this teaching experience, it became apparent that our 3rd period class housed some of the most troublesome boys in the 6th grade. My mentor came up with an inspired plan: divide and conquer. If we could remove a handful of the worst dissidents from the class, we might get some work done with the rest of the children. My new job for 3rd period became that of a special education instructor. I was assigned six of the most inveterate students I’ve ever encountered in any single setting over my 20+ year career. I was given a small conference room with an eight-foot table in the middle of it, and there, with a half-dozen boys deeply committed to a future as thugs, I would attempt to teach the day’s lesson while my mentor worked with the other 28 children in the classroom. A week into the plan, she lauded the progress that she was making. A week into the plan, I was still trying to cover the first day’s material with my group.

That room, that daily interaction with those boys around that table, became a seminal moment in the formation of my educational philosophy. Hell, it became a seminal moment in my development as a human. Admittedly, I loathed the first couple of weeks. I resented what I assumed to be an abuse of my role as a student teacher. There was no evidence that the boys were learning anything since most of the time was spent addressing their conduct, showing them how to find the right page of the textbook that few of them ever brought, and re-establishing basic communication skills and concepts that were missing from their memory or from their experience. The boys turned the situation into a badge of dishonor. At first, they didn’t find my singular attention appealing; they wanted to know why they’d been quarantined, and they were far too street smart to be fooled into thinking that it was because they were “lucky” or “superior.” Their initial response was so corrosive that I began to record the sessions in case something might go terribly sideways. They relished the opportunity to perform when my tape recorder appeared on the center of the table. I was in way over my head. 

My spouse, a dedicated new mother and a highly supportive partner, was also a brilliant elementary school teacher. She would listen to my complaints over dinner, validate my frustration, and then quickly offer advice on new ways to approach this challenge. Far more accustomed to the antics of highly energized and belligerent children, she daily provided new strategies to employ and, over time, some of these efforts began to work. Her best piece of advice was that there would be no respect without a relationship. After about four weeks, we started to make some headway—these scalawags and me. There were days—granted, very few of them—where I exited that room believing we’d taken a positive step towards learning something. More importantly, though, I was evolving. I found myself laughing with the boys; I was slower to take offense when they cussed or at their puerile banter. I relaxed on challenging every excuse they offered. I started appreciating their unique “take” on a world about which I knew very little rather than assuming they were ignorant. Fundamentally, there were moments when our roles switched and they would determine the day’s lesson while I learned something new.

Meanwhile, my interactions with this band of malcontents began to affect my interactions with Drew. The training that I was getting in that room, which sometimes felt like an emotional pummeling, was softening my stance on our most egregious perpetrator of classroom terrorism in 1st period.

Allow me to take you back to a moment very early in my experience to provide context.

Not long after I began working at this school, I was on lunch duty when a fight broke out. The cafeteria was situated two floors above the 6th grade classrooms and on the same floor where the 8th grade students were contained. During a class change that corresponded with our lunch hour, a mêlée broke out amongst a few of the oldest students in the school. Fights of this nature always draw a crowd, and students are often aware of the simmering squabble long before the teachers. By the time the first shove commenced, an audience of 8th graders had gathered to watch, and a few spectators had gotten in on the action. The brawl spilled into a stairwell, greatly increasing the danger of the situation due to the narrow and elevated terrain. With security personnel and teachers scrambling to stem the tide, opportunity arose for our 6th graders. The teachers’ attention fixed upon the ruckus meant some of our own students could bypass our normal procedures for leaving the cafeteria. The ensuing chaos coupled with the passing of time hinders the accuracy of my recollection. What I do remember quite vividly, however, is standing in the hall instructing 6th graders to stay in the cafeteria downwind of the fight and then seeing in my peripheral, Drew, sprinting towards the scuffle with an expression on his face that could only be defined as gleeful. This was a bee-to-honey-pot situation if ever there was one and quelling the riot would become a far more difficult proposition if Drew showed up on the scene. That kid could instigate Ghandi to a fist fight. I moved without thinking. I lunged forward and intercepted Drew and, due to the size and weight differential, harnessed him with one arm around his neck even as he attempted to side-step my intervention. He was so light and so small. I effortlessly spun him around to face me and in one motion placed both of my hands into the armpits of his dirty shirt. Grabbing the extra material that hung off his undernourished skeleton, I lifted him off the ground and pushed his back against the lockers so I could pin him there face-to-face. Drew was in a state of shock. This was likely not the first time an adult had laid hands on him, but it was likely the first time a teacher had. 

He stuttered a complaint. It may have been the first and only time in his life that he was unable to deliver a clever quip under duress. Up to that point all my interactions with him had been verbal redirection that would usually devolve into an argument. He relished puffing his chest before calling me names and accusing me of taking another student’s side. This time, however, he was scared and mute.

Taking advantage of our proximity, I leaned in close and whispered, “You had better get back into that cafeteria or else…” Drew’s eyes got big. I set him back down, and he hightailed it back towards his peers, looking back to make some wise crack. He needed to save face in front of the audience of students who’d witnessed our altercation, but I didn’t register his insult. I was physically shaking. I looked around to see if any other teachers had seen what I’d done, but every adult’s attention was on the stairwell or intent on herding students back into the cafeteria. I took numerous deep breaths to settle my nerves. I’d almost ended my career before it had begun because I’d manhandled a 6th grader who was acting pretty much how he’d been programmed.

Now, almost two months after that encounter, thanks to this small group of 3rd period boys my edges were filed, my fuse was lengthened, and my disdain for my role had been tempered and replaced with a growing sense of concern for these children whose bravado and tough exterior belied their fear and insecurity. The more time I spent with them, the more I recognized how essential grace, promise, and opportunity that is proffered to so many others was lacking from their lives. I learned to accept them. I grant that I wanted to see them change in some important ways, but I no longer viewed these students as problems to overcome or discard. I made a radical tactical change. I would no longer consider these kids antagonists; they were my charges, my pupils. A combative relationship in education only ever ends in failure for both parties.

Additionally, I focused my attention on those few students I’d previously overlooked, those kids who in the face of all this difficulty and all this distraction—surrounded by neglect, abuse, poverty, and deep-seated social illnesses—had found a way to succeed. To watch these 6th graders push past their ill-fated destiny and write beautifully constructed journal entries, to observe them analyzing the poetry of Dickenson and Cummings, to see them momentarily swept into an alternate reality by Bradbury and Asimov was a revelation. It made me question why I’d treated Drew any differently than these children who were flourishing in my classroom. This new consciousness gave me permission, nay, required that I change my stance towards him. I would whisper to get above his volume. I would welcome him with a smile in the doorway rather than warn him with a glare as he entered. I would take a deep ataractic breath whenever he began to venture off the rails rather than loudly exhale my resentment. I would first ask him to consider and adjust his behavior rather than order it of him.

I would reach out and lightly touch his shoulder to remind him I was nearby rather than hoist him against the wall by the front of his shirt.

Alas, where Drew is concerned, I wish I’d achieved this enlightenment earlier. Eventually, he pushed too many buttons in his other classes and mere weeks after I installed my new approach to working with him, he was placed into a program that operated much like an in-school suspension. My final days at the school would not include him in my class. In truth, I’d resigned myself to the inevitability of this outcome. Like so many people who eventually end up incarcerated for periods of time, Drew appeared destined for significant portions of time spent in isolation for the benefit of others. As my assignment at the school concluded, I lost touch with him.

I never got the opportunity to say goodbye to Drew, but this fact did not prevent him from teaching me a final and, perhaps, most meaningful lesson. On my last day teaching at that school, we held Christmas parties in our classrooms. Holiday music played in the background, students adorned themselves in green and red, teachers sported Santa hats, and candy canes decorated every desk. A few of the students fashioned homemade cards for us; some brought small gifts. I was cleaning out my desk when my mentor approached me with something in her hands. Her countenance was diametrically pensive and excited as she placed what appeared to be a pile of napkins on my desk. Upon closer examination, the offering revealed itself to be a wad of unused Kleenex.

“It’s from Drew,” she said.

I stared at the malformed ball of Kleenex wrapping paper for a moment, unsure what to make of it.

“One of the administrators dropped it off. It’s for you.”

That Drew was not allowed to attend the Christmas party was not a surprise. Placing that boy into such an environment would be like placing a hyper-sensory cat in a room with an operational disco ball. What was astonishing was realizing he’d sent a gift.

Becoming fully aware of the gravity of the moment, I preferred to be left alone to open the present, but my mentor, as captivated and awestruck as I was, crept closer. I reached down and began to slowly and carefully unwind the “wrapping.” Piece by piece the tattered tissues fell onto the desk. The package, already quite delicate, became trifling and began to separate as the bandage unraveled. When I finally reached the last sheet of tissue, I opened my hand, palm up, to reveal Drew’s gift. Sitting atop that final shard of Kleenex were three gingerbread windmills. If you’ve never seen the type, windmills are shortbread cookies with chopped almonds imbedded into the mixture, and they are shaped like old-timey Dutch…windmills.

I sat there speechless. My mentor, too, lacked any expression other than a strange noise. You know the sound. It’s that wheeze that escapes when there’s a stoppage of breath midway between deep inhalation. It is a tell, always, of an unexpected emotional reaction. I looked up. Her carefully manicured eyes, darkly lined by mascara as they always were, glistened softly with the reflection of light held in droplets of water.

“Joe…”

I stared at this tough-as-nails, party-girl extraordinaire (from what I could deduce from our Monday morning meetings anyway) and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This no-nonsense young woman who took no gruff from crowds of rabid middle-schoolers was beginning to choke up and cry. The Kleenex on my desk returned to its natural use.

Me? I’m the guy who sets down on the curb immediately after witnessing a horrific accident and proves useless to potential survivors as he curls up into a ball. I just sat there like an idiot trying to process the situation.

Then, feeling compelled, I guess, to explain her reaction my mentor said, “What a beautiful gift. I bet that’s everything he has.”

I can appreciate that she wanted to be sure I understood the magnanimity of the moment, but the fact is this was not my first rodeo. When I was just a youngster, I had a friend, Derek, who gave me a gift that was obviously one of his own matchbox cars. While other kids passed me perfectly wrapped boxes of brand new and in some cases expensive toys that their parents had purchased for them to bring, Derek produced from the pocket of his jeans without fanfare or wrapping paper a slightly scratched and dinged orange Mustang—the very car I’d complimented just weeks before as my favorite among his collection. At the time he’d beamed proudly and acknowledged that it was his favorite too. Yet, on my 5th birthday he gave it to me.

That chipped and rusted orange Mustang was the best gift anyone had ever given me until a little monster gave me a trio of windmill cookies wrapped in Kleenex for Christmas.  

I walked away from that experience a transformed educator because of what a half-dozen malefactors-turned-mentors taught me about adversity, about perspective, and about tolerance for others whose life experience is wholly different from your own.

And I walked out a better human because I’d met a kid named Drew.

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