Whatever Works

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales

BY: Marcia Rudoff

Good instincts usually tell you what to do long before your head has figured it out.
~Michael Burke


"Billy Wagner's father will be here at 10 AM. He wishes to speak with you," the note in my teacher's box read. I felt the color draining from my face and tried to keep my hands from shaking. I knew I was in trouble.

I was thrilled when I landed a teaching position in my new hometown's high school. The school district had a reputation of hiring only experienced teachers and I was just beginning my career. An exception had been made in my case because this was a pilot program and even the principal didn't know if it would work. (Experienced teachers probably knew to get more details about the plan and turned the position down.)

At the time, Millard High School included the seventh through twelfth grades. Each of the four elementary schools that fed into it had graduating sixth graders who, for one reason or another, would need a more sheltered environment to progress in such a large institution. Eager to teach so close to home and for such a fine school, I oozed confidence and enthusiasm for the opportunity to be a part of this pilot program, even if I had no clue about how to run it.

When I received my class rosters I was delighted -- the enrollments were extremely small. My largest class had thirteen pupils. This was an unbelievable number for a public school. It should have tipped me off that my task would not be as simple as I imagined. I assumed my students would be behind in their skills and a little remediation delivered with large doses of encouragement would solve their problems. Five minutes into the first day of school, I realized things were a lot more complicated.

All of the students were in my room for more than one subject and operating at different levels because of different handicaps. For some it was intellect, for others the problems were emotional. Two were new to the country and needed to learn English. Some were late bloomers, who with a little more maturity would eventually catch up with their peers.

And then there was Billy. Skinny, sensitive Billy. Billy the outsider. Unlike others who knew at least someone else in the room from their elementary school days, Billy didn't. He was easily upset and cried a lot. He cried if he had answers marked wrong on his paper, he cried if I called on him and he didn't want to answer, he cried if classmates tried to joke with him. I was embarrassed to see a twelve-year-old boy crying like that. I didn't know what to do, so I left him to it.

There was no way I could teach a lock-step lesson with this group. Their ability levels were too diverse. We did some things together, but I had to give a lot of time to individualized instruction. I tried, with fingers crossed, to have meaningful assignments for the others to do while I worked with a single student. This didn't always make for a quiet, orderly classroom. Free-wheeling and chaotic would be a more accurate description.

Strange things happened. While I was working with Sally, Kanzo, who entered the class knowing only the alphabet and how to count to one hundred in English, was somehow able to help Danny with his math. Danny had no trouble understanding him. Mickey, Steve and Bobby began grouping together to do their work. Some might call it cheating; I preferred to see it as collaborating.

In spite of my constant fear that at any moment the principal might come into my room to complain about the noise and be horrified by my lack of control, things began to settle down. It was still noisy and a bit too social, but Wally, the withdrawn one, had begun to interact with Sally, who sat in front of him. It was a start, even if it was only with one other person. Helge now spoke in full English sentences, if you ignored the mangled syntax. Mickey's compositions had stretched from one paragraph to a full page, even if the spelling and punctuation remained abysmal. Mess-producing Myra was finally picking up after herself, and Billy had stopped crying.

Small victories. Where was the accelerated academic growth? When was I going to set stricter standards and get these youngsters up to grade level? When was I going to take control and have them acting like high school students? I wanted to, but I felt in over my head. I just didn't know how. Was it any wonder that Mr. Wagner wanted to talk to me about his son Billy's progress? How long before a mob of parents appeared, demanding to know what was going on in my classroom?

Ten o'clock was the start of my student-free period. I rushed to the faculty ladies' room a few minutes before, sick to my stomach with dread. I splashed water on my face, applied fresh lipstick and tried to smile a brave smile into the mirror. I needed time to calm down, but the meeting with Mr. Wagner couldn't be put off. I hoped he'd be late.

I found him already in my room, seated behind a student desk too small for his stocky build. I greeted him cheerfully and we shook hands. I slid into the seat next to him and steeled myself for what was to come.

"I won't take too much of your time," he said, "but I wanted you to know how much my wife and I appreciate what you have done for our son. Billy has absolutely blossomed this year. Do you know he used to cry and have stomachaches when he had to go to school? If we asked him about his school day, he'd clam up on us. Now all he talks about is school! I don't know how you did it, but our son is a happy boy again. My wife and I are so grateful; I had to come here to thank you personally." He stood up and straightened his suit coat. "Now I'd better get back to my office so we can both get some work done," he said.

I remained in my seat, stunned. He didn't know how I did it, but he was grateful for the change in his son! I didn't know how I did it either, but Mr. Wagner's comments gave me the confidence to continue with my classes the way they were. I stopped thinking I needed to get tough, be strict and concentrate solely on the academics. Billy and his father had taught me that my free-wheeling classroom, born of my inexperience, was giving a troubled young adolescent room to gain the self-confidence he needed to be able to concentrate on schoolwork. I learned from Billy that there is more to a student than the amount of English one can stuff into his head.

Over the years, I encountered other students who made me realize why I became a teacher, but Billy Wagner was the first, and the one for whom I am most grateful. When Billy went on to college, I felt as successful as he did.

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