When In Doubt, Write It Out

I've had some very conflicting emotions this past week. While things are going relatively well (considering the circumstances), I've been more down and out than usual. For the first time in a long time I questioned my purpose and effectiveness at my school, and that was a very alarming moment.

I love my job. I love my students. I even love most of my co-workers. However, when the going got tough these past few weeks, and this week especially, I broke down and cried. I felt ineffective, incapable, and lost. After sleeping for 14 hours in the past 24, I rose up from my slump and searched for something to ground me in my purpose, sturdy my resolve.

That's when I came across the first piece I wrote when I started teaching. It was October 1, 2009 and I had been teaching for about 6 weeks. I was knee deep in children (16 going on 20) in a small closet with a carpet that made my head throb every time I walked in. The number of desks needed made it so there was about 15 sq. ft. of walking space, and nothing stuck to the walls because cinderblock was invented by the devil. I had an aide who beat children, and the other tried his best but was as lost as I was. My principal ignored that me and my students existed, and the only time he spoke to me was when one of my students was caught in the wrong location. "This MR kid doesn't belong here. Don't let him out of your site, Walker."

I was in a pretty low place. Even though I cried every day at 1pm to my mother (thanks for listening, Mom), I was more angry than sad. So what did I do? I wrote about it.

I Can. I Will. I Must.

I accept that DC schools are among the lowest performing in the country – at the moment.

I accept that my school was shut down because it did not meet AYP three years in a row.

I accept that I was placed in a classroom that is filled with students who have a disability I was completely unprepared for.

I accept that John cannot read the word “the”.

I can even accept that Joseph came from a school that refused to teach him.

I accept that Diamond has brain cancer and may not live to next year.

I accept that Denzel adds with his fingers – but is a regionally ranked basketball player.

I accept that my students have been neglected and forgotten in a broken system.

However…

I do not accept that Washington, D.C. chooses to label children as “Mentally Retarded” – for it scars my students deep in their souls – they are “Intellectually Disabled”, not retarded.

I do not accept that these children cannot learn – because they learn everything I offer them.

I do not accept that Clarice comes to my room nearly every day and says “Ms. Walker, can I be in your class? I want to learn how to read but my teacher won’t teach me.”

I do not accept that these children are a lost cause in need of babysitting – because they are independent and strong young adults.

I do not accept that DC public schools refuse to open their eyes to the traumatic experiences they have put these children through.

I do not accept that a group of students at my school do not have a classroom, or a teacher, because it is not an emergency.

Instead…

I accept the responsibility to educate the forgotten, the broken, the alone.

I choose to teach some of the most eager and engaging children and tell them they CAN learn, they ARE smart, they WILL read.

I empower my children with the ability to teach others what they know – not make excuses for what they do not.

I enable my children to fight for their right to an education – since nobody has ever told them they have that right.

I fight for the children who have been told they are not to interact with other kids because they are called “retarded”, “stupid”, and “unable to learn”.

I teach those who are feared, shunned, and misunderstood.

I tell my students every day that they are smart, beautiful, and able to learn – as some have never heard these words said to them.

I can, I will, and I must advocate for the children who have been forgotten, for the children who have been pushed aside and hidden behind a door stained with the stigmatized label “Special Ed”.

I refuse to sit and watch a population be discarded and neglected.

I teach 9-12^th grade, self-contained, MR Cluster students.

I come from a life of privilege and good fortune, but I have never been as privileged as I am now – teaching 17 children who are fighting the system and proving that they CAN, WILL, and MUST learn.

When I had finished, I sent it to my father, my biggest fan and best critic. Once he read it (and sent me some edits), he told me to share it with others. He was moved, motivated, and angry about what he had read, and he wanted other people to feel the same. (He and I, we're two peas in a pod.) So I sent it along to my mentor, and ended up being nominated to read it to 300 other educators. It has slowly spiraled through my education circles, and people have thanked me for strengthening their resolve in the mission that all children deserve an equal and excellent education.

The most important part of this piece was it gave me my mantra. No, not the "shit could always be worse" mantra that I seem to have had on repeat for the past 7 months, but the "I can, will, must" mantra. The driving force behind everything I do.

I can design and deliver an excellent education, both in and outside of the classroom.
I will work tirelessly to deliver said education to all children who enter my life.
I must do this in order to be a proud citizen of the great United States of America. There is no other option, this must happen.

A lot has changed since I wrote "I Can. I Will. I Must." We have a thriving program for students with Intellectual Disabilities at my school. It is no longer just me, but a team of teachers that educate these beautiful children. DCPS has not only paid attention to, but acknowledge our students, their accomplishments, and has begun working with other clusters to change their curriculum. The national language to describe my students' condition has officially changed from "Mental Retardation" to "Intellectual Disability."

But it's not all sunshine and rainbows. We're back to being severely understaffed because of budget cuts and lack of understand for what is necessary for our children. I have begun working with students outside of the cluster and have been exposed to new injustices within our building and district. It is these challenges that made me question my resolve and ability these past few weeks. However, it is also what gives me resolve to move forward.

Today, I move forward instead of backwards, regardless of the direction that the system is trying to make me go.

I Can. I Will. I Must.

I'm Really Good at Math... but Your Class Makes Me Feel Stupid

Self-advocacy is a life skill that every special education teacher harps on, every day, in every class. For our students with disabilities, it's crucial that they speak up for themselves to inform their teacher what is and is NOT working for them. As long as they are mature and honest in the conversation, just about every teacher is willing to adjust the curriculum, make modifications and accommodations, and hear the child out.

Today was a big day for SJ. This is my first year teaching her, but other teachers who have taught her for 3 years constantly chat about how SJ will be the angel student (sit quietly, follow directions, be respectful) but if she is lost, she'll never let you know. She'll sit there for an entire semester before telling you that she doesn't know what's up. That was, until today.

We have our first Algebra II test tomorrow and SJ wanted to stay after school and complete the review packet with me. When she sat down with me, she looked across the table at her old math teacher and made a goofy face. Ms. W (her previous math teacher) told her that if she needed something she needs to tell me. SJ shook her head and we continued working. At the first break we had, she got up and sat down with Ms. W and continued working through the packet. I watched them as they went along, trying to learn how Ms. W teaches in order to help me be a better teacher for SJ. We were doing a lot of the same techniques, but the difference was Ms. W knew exactly what SJ's deficits were, and I didn't. Granted, she taught SJ for 2 years in a row, so it's no surprise that Ms. W knew what SJ needed help with, but it still gave me a wake up call.

When Ms. W had to get up to do something, I moved back in to help SJ with the packet. Before we began working again, I asked her why she was so shy with me but so chatty with Ms. W. She explained that she really likes math and that it's her better subject, but she is frustrated with my class because it makes her feel stupid. Not only does it make her feel stupid, but the entire class is lost. Everyone was nervous about the Unit 1 test and she thinks that if I keep going at the pace I'm going everyone is going to fail.

My heart broke. It's only the 3rd week of school and I'm making kids feel stupid. The last thing I EVER want to do is make a child feel incapable or inadequate. The problem was that I was so busy worrying about whether I was meeting the Algebra II standards that I forgot I work with kids with disabilities who are functioning far below grade level. Scaffolding is everything, and remediation is a non-negotiable part of instruction. I was treating them like any other Algebra II class, when the truth is that they aren't. And SJ knew that.

She told me that her and the other kids learn slower, which is why they needed the smaller classes. She does better in one-on-one situations, but she understands that it's hard for me because I don't have an assistant in the classroom and it's just me. She felt bad for me because I am trying to keep things moving for the kids who come every day but have to deal with the fact that some kids come once a week or new kids come all the time. She wasn't mad at me, but she made sure that I understood that this class couldn't keep going the way it was currently moving.

Without a clue what to do, I asked her for advice. I asked what her previous teachers had done that was helpful for her. I asked what I can trust her and the other students to do and what I should make sure I supervise. SJ and I came up with a new structure for what the class will look like, and we agreed that if the test goes poorly tomorrow that we'll start everything over again on Monday, from scratch, using the new plan and see if we do better the second time around.

When Ms. W came back to our conversation, she asked how the math was going and I told her horribly. She was very confused and I had SJ explain what we had been talking about. I have never seen a more proud special education teacher. Ms. W was elated to hear that SJ not only told me that she was struggling, but was clear and explicit about what she needed in my classroom, as well as what the other kids needed too.

SJ's conversation made me really sad. I had spent 3 weeks teaching students with severe disabilities, and I couldn't even tell that they felt stupid in my classroom. I made SJ promise to continue to tell me how things are going, every day if possible, and to make sure that I never, EVER, make her feel stupid again. She promised, as well as thanked me for trying my best and listening.

That was one of the best "thank you"s I've ever gotten. When I asked my students on the first day of school what the most important thing for me to do was, they all unanimously responded, "Try to be the best teacher you can be." Thankfully, SJ and my Algebra II class realize that I'm trying my best, but I need them to help me out and teach me in order for me to be the best teacher I can be. The math will come eventually...