August 2018
Tracing my finger along Windlake Road, I made
note of the turns, tabulated the mileage, and committed the map’s image to my
memory. I had done this many times before. After eight years of biking around
Milwaukee, I was confident in my sense of direction. So when I jumped on my
bike, with less than 15 minutes before my scheduled arrival for Antonio’s home
visit, I was confident I’d be there on time. But a funny thing happened
when I crossed Mitchell Avenue and turned left to head north past St. Michael's
Basilica on Milwaukee’s Southside: I lost my bearings. I quickly made a
left-hand turn and pedaled another mile. I passed several bodegas and corner
bars with names like “Super Mercado” and “Food and Soda.” I anticipated an upcoming intersection, and
when it didn’t materialize, I realized I was lost. I called Ivelise.
“Hey
Ivelise. I apologize, but where is your house again?” I asked. “Union
Street. Near Greenfield,” she said. “OK!
See you soon.”
I backtracked, but I didn’t feel confident. I
stopped to ask a few pedestrians for assistance, but because I didn't speak
Spanish, they were unable to help me. I was disoriented in a bewildering maze
of bungalow houses, concrete streets, and alleys. I called two more times. I
was now late by 30 minutes. Stressed, I made an ill-advised turn, hit a crack
in the road, and fell over. I was ready to cancel the visit. “Hey Ivelise, I am
completely lost. Can you wait just a little while longer? I am so sorry.” Half
expecting an angry response, I was shocked when Ivelise quickly said, “Yes! Of
course. We will be here.” I continued on. I spotted her 15 minutes later
sitting on the porch watching Antonio ride his bike on the sidewalk. I was now
a full 45 minutes late. Embarrassed, I slunk up her steps and apologized. She
smiled, gave me a hug, and then handed me a Puerto Rican empanada and water. I
was so grateful for the food. In that moment, her house became my refuge. She
saw me in a vulnerable state and offered sustenance and comfort. I wondered how
I would have reacted.
October 2018
Right away, I knew something wasn’t right with
Ivelise. She sat there dejected in her chair. Shoulders slumped forward, hands
on her forehead, softly mouthing the phrase, “No. No. No.” Everyone was silent. “Would you like some
time?” I asked. “No. Let’s keep going,” she said. I proceeded with the IEP
meeting. Taking a cue from Ivelise’s demeanor, I faced her and reassured her
that her son Antonio was gregarious, loveable, and hard-working. “Not only does
he work hard, but he has a sense of humor,” I continued, “he is empathetic and
caring; you’re raising a wonderful young man.” My words felt like shallow
platitudes. But I meant them. Ivelise looked up at me said “thank you” and
silently waited for the academic report.
IEP meetings can be bewildering experiences for
parents, teachers, and students alike. They are full of educational jargon and
acronyms. There are specialists--Speech and Language Pathologists, Occupational
Therapists, Psychologists, Physical Therapists and others--each speaking a
language composed of acronyms and code words unique to their field. As the
educational specialist, I too have my own “teacher talk.” Here are just a few
of the common acronyms I use regularly during a meeting: PLOP, MAP, STEP,
BIP/FBA, SDD, OHI, ED, ILD and IEP.
Just as it is difficult to estimate the worth of
a grown adult by merely looking at their profession or salary, the same is true
for a child. Occasionally, educators (myself included) are guilty of
deconstructing students into what I like to think of as “educational atoms.”
Instead of reflecting on a child’s character growth or their passion for
Cenozoic-era reptiles, we talk about their percentage growth in ELA (oops,
another acronym). Instead of focusing on a child’s interest in surrealist art,
we count the number of behavior referrals sent to the office during chemistry
class. Unfortunately, IEP meetings are venues where this type of deconstruction
into “academic atoms” can easily take place.
I could see that this was happening to Antonio.
Ivelise knew her son struggled with comprehension and reading, but she also saw
him holistically, as an individual. And her more nuanced, complex understanding
of her son’s character was coming into direct conflict with the numbers and
acronyms of the “atomized student” being portrayed during the IEP meeting.
We were all guilty. Especially me.
The tone of the meeting changed drastically when Ivelise talked about
Antonio. She spoke about her dreams for Antonio and where she sees his growth
both academically and emotionally. The love for her son was infectious and the
dignity with which she handled herself during what had to be an emotionally
challenging IEP meeting made me reflect on my role as an educator, and has made
me a more empathetic teacher.
Perhaps this is a contrived comparison, but
after the meeting I thought back to that summer day when I was bewildered and
lost searching for Ivelise’s home. And much like that afternoon in August, I
was again lost in October. This time, however, there were no roads or wrong
turns to be made. Instead, I lost the complete image of her son when his IEP
meeting began to focus too much on numbers and not enough on Antonio, the
child. But unlike that time in August, Ivelise offered me more than an empanada
and a lesson on grace and patience. Like a master of a pointillist painting,
she made me step back to see the full canvas. Each minute dot (or atom) was
merely one small part of a larger portrait. And she showed me that my
relationship with her son is more than just a one-way street of progress
reports and IEP meetings. It’s instead a dynamic relationship where I am often
the student, being guided and supported by the most impactful teacher of all: the
parent.
