I pedaled up to the main entrance of Rocketship Southside
Community Prep and hurriedly stashed my bike. I was arriving late. That morning
there was a 20-mile-per-hour headwind. Cold gusts howled down Milwaukee’s wide
streets turning the entire city into a large harmonica. I crept across the
city. And as I rolled along Lake
Michigan’s shoreline, I prepared myself for the flurry of activity that would
befall me upon entering the building.
And make no mistake: It would be a lot.
And make no mistake: I was overwhelmed.
For I am a first year Special Education (ISE) teacher.
Upon entering the school, I was informed by my colleagues
that our first grade cohorts would be leaving for a field trip to the Urban
Ecology Center—a local nonprofit dedicated to giving urban youth first-hand
experiences with conservation and the natural world.
“Great!” I thought. “While my first graders are gone, I’ll
have time to catch up on my IEP paperwork, on my lesson plans, on my parent
contacts, on my behavior intervention plans, on my schedule, on my….”
The list seemed endless.
I was looking forward to a morning of laser-focused
paper-pushing.
I NEEDED this
morning to feel prepared, to feel competent, to try to “get ahead.”
Then I was told by my SPED supervisor that I would have to
go on the trip to help a student of mine named Peter.
My plans were dashed.
“There is no way I can go.” I thought. “I’ve got 8 other
kids to teach and work with. Sacrificing their academics and learning so that one could learn about a butterfly’s life
cycle was not worth it.”
That was my rationale.
Our wonderful para-professional (of course) agreed to go.
Issue resolved.
--
I remember the first time I worked with Peter. He was
reluctant to come into my office. Tears welled up in his eyes as his mother
assured him that I was going to be a great teacher (this, of course, was total
conjecture. It was my first day. She had no idea if I was going to be a ‘great’
teacher—I sure didn’t feel like it).
Reluctantly, Peter sat at my desk and whimpered. He wouldn’t
talk. I prompted him by asking numerous questions. Nothing worked. At the end
of our first 30-minute small group, I had yet to hear his voice, let alone know
what his favorite color was, or what memory he cherished most from summer.
Slowly, however, Peter and I developed a functional working
relationship. It was pretty straightforward: I would come into his class two
times a day. I’d bring in my teaching tools: a numbers chart, a white board, a
few dry erase markers, and some flashcards. We’d drill the names of numbers,
the sounds of letters. I’d ask him to rote count to 100 and back, guiding and
modeling for him whenever he was unsure of himself. I’d call on him to answer
my questions and encourage him to speak loudly, confidently.
A lot of our time spent together was sedentary. It was
comfortable for him physically, for Peter was born with a neurological
condition that has weakened his limbs, negatively affecting his balance and motor
skills.
Quickly, I noticed that he would become distraught often
refusing to answer questions and beginning to cry if he felt too challenged or
pushed.
Excuse the imagery, but at times Peter reminded me of my
1977 Yamaha Moped from my youth. It was a unique one-of-a-kind bike with a
mounted 2-cycle engine. It had potential for power. Unfortunately, it was a
temperamental machine. Nearly every time I kick-started the bike, I would have
to lightly push in the choke to allow more gas to seep into the piston
chambers, coaxing the bike to idle. Often, I’d flood the engine and it would
stall out, forcing me to wait another 30 minutes.
And much like that bike, I had to take the time to learn
about Peter—to figure out the areas where I could target teach and support
him--to discover, if you will, the correct amount of gasoline to release into
the combustion chamber of Peter’s own academic and social potential.
Teaching as an ISE teacher, I realized, is a delicate
balancing act. One where I must be attuned to the voice of my students (often non-verbal),
indicating where I am succeeding, at times pleading for assistance, and, most
importantly, asking me to believe.
--
Peter began to cry when he learned that a field trip was
planned for the late morning. The change in his routine shocked his ability to
cope. If indeed Peter was going on the trip, he made it clear that I would have
to go with him. He began to point at me and worked furiously to grasp onto my
hand.
I was now conflicted. I was telling myself that I had to
choose between my desires to accomplish my paperwork and teach my 8 other
students, or to travel with Peter to the Urban Ecology Center.
Realizing that Peter, through his grasping of my hand, had
taken a major step in advocating for his own needs, I knew I had to go with
him.
Throughout the morning, I had been engaging in a false
choice. This was not about Peter vs. my other students. It was about Peter
internalizing our lessons on empowerment. At Rocketship we often talk to our
students about the importance of agency in the classroom, and I honestly
couldn’t think of a better example of this lesson being lived out than in Peter
informing me that he needed me to go on the trip.
So I went.
Our para-professional stayed at school.
--
As the class broke up into two groups, the students were
wild with anticipation. Within the hour, we had acted out the life-cycle of a
monarch butterfly, wiggling on our bellies as caterpillars and curling into
cocoons. We analyzed the life-cycle of mammals, observing the physical changes
that manifest when mammals mature into adulthood. And we got to touch the hard,
scaly shell of the resident North American Box Turtle. Naturally, a planned
hike along the banks of Menomonee River was the perfect way to end the
trip.
Peter held onto my hand tightly as we descended a grassy
knoll, walking under an old rail-road bridge and across a gravel bike path.
Aware that Peter needed both vision and balance supports, I walked next to him.
When we cut through a patch of stiff, yellow cone flowers, I held his hand as
he navigated through the thick roots and stems. When the rest of the class
hopped from rock-to-rock as we followed the forest path that runs along the
river, Peter grabbed the back of my shirt to maintain his balance as he picked
his way through the stones. When the class ran ahead, so did he. When five
students from his class scuttled up a steep, muddy embankment to inspect the
burrow of a groundhog, Peter didn’t hesitate to follow.
I saw him gaining confidence by the minute. His innate
curiosity began to burn bright. Peter was no longer being “held back” by either
his shy demeanor or some physical “disability.”
At some point in our trip, it began to rain. Our group
sought shelter under a high-way trestle, where we sang songs. When the rain
subsided, our group made our way west along the railroad tracks, peeling off
into a cove of spindly willow branches that tangled together to create a
natural room (or clearing) just big enough for fifteen 6-year-olds to fit. The hike leader had each of the students climb
inside, where they mimicked the call of a few migrating birds.
Peter and I came in about 3 minutes behind everyone else—I
had to carry him down the steep trail and helped him navigate through the curtains
of spiraled willow leaves.
And as his classmates ahead of him began to file out through
the narrow exit-way onto the path, I saw Peter glance up and look around at the
canopy of green in which he was embraced. He was smiling widely.
And in the end, it was I who thanked Peter for the trip.
