The boy himself later explained that he had completely given up hope and felt he was going to die, until he saw that special teacher. Everything had changed with an insight gained by a simple realization. With happy tears in his eyes, the little boy who had been burned so badly that he had given up hope, expressed it like this: "They wouldn't send a special teacher to work on nouns and adverbs with a dying boy, now, would they?"
Excerpted from Moments for Mothers
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How Could I Miss, I'm a Teacher!
You cannot teach people anything. You can only help them discover it within themselves.
Galileo
In the early 1960s in New York City, I worked with a group of eighth- and ninth-grade students who were only reading at the second- to third-grade level. I found it difficult not to experience despair, working with them, trying to tutor kids who had basically given up on school. Their attendance was spotty at best. I believe many of them came to school simply because this is where most of their friends were that day, rather than because they thought they might learn something.
Attitudinally, they were a disaster. Anger, cynicism, sarcasm and the expectation of being failed, ridiculed or put down was the tenor and content of their talk. I tried to tutor them in small groups and one-on-one, and I must confess the results were not encouraging with most. Oh, there were a few who seemed to respond more positively on an occasional basis, but it was impossible to tell when that marginally positive attitude might disappear, to be
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replaced by sullenness or unaccountable flashes of anger.
One of my other problems was the fact that, at the time, almost no age-appropriate remedial reading materials were available for junior high school students at such a low level. They wanted to read about relationships, dating, sports and cars, not materials like "Run, Spot, run! See the ball. It is bouncing." The kids regarded the materials I had as too babyish and beneath them. Unfortunately, more interesting materials were way too difficult in reading level for them to handle without much frustration. Several of them complained continuously about the reading material. Jose, a tall lanky boy with a pronounced accent, captured the essence when he said, "Hey, man, this stuff is boring. And it's dumb, too! Why do we got to read this junk, man?"
A glimmer of an idea crept into my mind. I sought help from my department chairman on how to write a proposal for funding a little tutoring project. We didn't get a huge sum of money, but it was enough for a pilot program for the last six months of the school year. It was simple and it worked.
I "hired" my students as reading tutors. I told them that the nearby elementary school had students in the first, second and third grades who needed help in reading. I had some money that I could pay to anyone who'd help me work with these children. My students asked whether this would take place during or after school. "Oh, during school. In fact, it will be instead of our class period together. We'll just walk over there each day and work with the kids there.
"You've got to know, that if you don't show up, you don't get paid. And you also have to understand that it would be very disappointing to a young child if you were his or her tutor and you didn't show up or if you didn't work caringly with that child. You'll have a big responsibility!"
All but one of my 11 students jumped at the chance to be a part of this program. The lone holdout changed his
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mind within one week as he heard from the other students how much they were enjoying working with these young kids.
The elementary kids were grateful for the help but even more so for some attention from these older kids from their own neighborhood. Clearly you could see a version of hero worship in their eyes. Each of my students was assigned two or three younger children to work with. And they worked, reading to them and having them read aloud as well.
My goal was to find a way to legitimize eighth and ninth-graders reading such young material. I thought that, if I could get them to read that material and read regularly, they would surely improve. As it turned out, I was right. At the end of that year, testing showed almost all of them had improved one, two or even three grade levels in reading!
But the most spectacular changes were in my students' attitudes and behavior. I hadn't expected that they would start to dress better, with more care and more neatness. Nor had I expected that the number of fights would decrease while their attendance dramatically increased.
One morning, as I was entering school from the parking area, I saw Jose walking toward the door. He looked ill. "What's the matter, Jose?" I said, "You look like you might have a fever." This was a student whose attendance had been the second worst in the group.
"Oh, I guess I'm feeling kind of sick, Mr. McCarty," he replied.
"So why are you here today? Why didn't you stay home?" I asked.
His answer floored me. "Oh, man, I couldn't miss today, I'm a teacher! My students would miss me, wouldn't they?" He grinned and went in the building.
Hanoch McCarty
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On That Note
It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.
Albert Einstein
One year when I was teaching second grade, a new child entered our class mid-year. His name was Daniel, and he brought a special light to our class.
Daniel came over to me one afternoon at the end of the school day. He said, ''Ms. Johnson, I have a note for you from my old teacher. It's not on paper though, it's in my head." Daniel leaned over and said, "She wanted me to tell you how lucky you are to have me in your class!"
Krista Lyn Johnson
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A Christmas Gift I'll Never Forget
A child's life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark.
Chinese Proverb
He entered my life 20 years ago, leaning against the doorjamb of Room 202, where I taught fifth grade. He wore sneakers three sizes too large and checkered pants ripped at the knees.
Daniel made this undistinguished entrance in the school of a quaint lakeside village known for its old money, white colonial homes and brass mailboxes. He told us his last school had been in a neighboring county. "We were pickin' fruit," he said matter-of-factly.
I suspected this friendly, scruffy, smiling boy from an emigrant family had no idea he had been thrown into a den of fifth-grade lions who had never before seen torn pants. If he noticed snickering, he didn't let on. There was no chip on his shoulder.
Twenty-five children eyed Daniel suspiciously until the kickball game that afternoon. Then he led off the first
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inning with a home run. With it came a bit of respect from the wardrobe critics of Room 202.
Next was Charles' turn. Charles was the least athletic, most overweight child in the history of fifth grade. After his second strike, amid the rolled eyes and groans of the class, Daniel edged up and spoke quietly to Charles' dejected back. "Forget them, kid. You can do it."
Charles warmed, smiled, stood taller and promptly struck out anyway. But at that precise moment, defying the social order of this jungle he had entered, Daniel gently began to change thingsand us.
By autumn's end, we had all gravitated toward him. He taught us all kinds of lessons. How to call a wild turkey. How to tell whether fruit is ripe before that first bite. How to treat others, even Charles. Especially Charles. He never did use our names, calling me "Miss" and the students "kid."
The day before Christmas vacation, the students always brought gifts for the teacher. It was a ritualopening each department-store box, surveying the expensive perfume or scarf or leather wallet, and thanking the child.
That afternoon, Daniel walked to my desk and bent close to my ear. "Our packing boxes came out last night," he said without emotion. "We're leavin' tomorrow."
As I grasped the news, my eyes filled with tears. He countered the awkward silence by telling me about the move.
Then, as I regained my composure, he pulled a gray rock from his pocket. Deliberately and with great style, he pushed it gently across my desk.
I sensed that this was something remarkable, but all my practice with perfume and silk had left me pitifully unprepared to respond. "It's for you," he said, fixing his eyes on mine. "I polished it up special."
I've never forgotten that moment.
Years have passed since then. Each Christmas my daughter asks me to tell this story. It always begins after
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she picks up the small polished rock that sits on my desk. Then she nestles herself in my lap and I begin. The first words of the story never vary. "The last time I ever saw Daniel, he gave me this rock as a gift and told me about his boxes. That was a long time ago even before you were born.
"He's a grown-up now," I finish. Together we wonder where he is and what he has become.
"Someone good I bet," my daughter says. Then she adds, "Do the end of the story."
I know what she wants to hearthe lesson of love and caring learned by a teacher from a boy with nothingand everythingto give. A boy who lived out of boxes. I touch the rock, remembering.
"Hi kid," I say softly. "This is Miss. I hope you no longer need the packing boxes. And Merry Christmas, wherever you are."
Linda DeMers Hummel
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A Matter of Honor
One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary new material, but the warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child.
Carl Jung
Since kindergarten, the staff at Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Edison elementary schools in Daly City, California, had seen the results of my mother's alcoholic outrage.
In the beginning, my teachers gently probed me about my paper-thin, shredded clothes, my offensive body odor, the countless bruises and burns on my arms, as well as why I hunted for food from garbage cans. One day my second-grade teacher, Ms. Moss, demanded a meeting with the school principal and pleaded with him to do something to help me. The principal reluctantly agreed to intervene. The next morning Mother and the principal had a private meeting. I never saw Ms. Moss again.
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Immediately after that, things went from bad to worse. I was forced to live and sleep in the downstairs garage, ordered to perform slave-like chores, and received no food unless I met my mother's stringent time requirements for her demands. Mother had even changed my name from "David" to "It," and threatened to punish my brothers if they tried to sneak me food, use my real name or even look at me.
The only safe haven in my life were my teachers. They seemed to always go out of their way to make me feel like a normal child. Whenever one of them showered me with praise, I cherished every word. If one of my teachers brushed up against me as he or she bent over to check on my assignments, I absorbed the scent of their perfume or cologne. During the weekends, as I sat on top of my hands in the garage and shivered from the cold, I employed my secret weapon. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and tried to picture my teacher's face. Only when I visualized my teacher's smile did I begin to feel warm inside.
But years later, one Friday afternoon, I lost control and stormed out of my fifth-grade homeroom class. I ran to the bathroom, pounded my tiny red fists against the tiles and broke down into a waterfall of tears. I was so frustrated because for months I could no longer see my saviors in my dreams. I desperately believed their life force had somehow kept me alive. But now, with no inner strength to draw upon, I felt so hollow and alone inside. Later that afternoon, once my peers scurried from the classroom to their homes or the playgrounds at hypersonic speeds, I dared myself and locked my eyes onto my homeroom teacher, Mr. Ziegler. For a fragment of time I knew he felt the immensity of my pain. A moment later I broke our stare, bowed my head in respect and turned away, somehow hoping for a miracle.
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Months later my prayers were answered. On March 5, 1973, for some unknown reason, four teachers, the school nurse and the principal collectively decided to notify the authorities. Because of my condition, I was immediately placed into protective custody. But before I left, the entire staff, one by one, knelt down and held me. I knew by the look on everyone's faces that they were scared. My mind flashed back to the fate of Ms. Moss. I wanted to run away and dissolve. As a child called "It," I felt I was not worth their trouble.
As always my saviors sensed my anxiety and gave me a strong hug, as if to form an invisible shield to protect me from all harm. With each warm body I closed my eyes and tried to capture the moment for all eternity. With my eyes clamped shut, I heard one of my teachers gently whisper, "No matter the outcome, no matter what happens to us, this is something we had to do. As teachers . . . if we can have an effect on one child's life . . . This is the true meaning of our profession."
After a round of good-byes, I stood paralyzedI had never in all my life felt such an outpouring of emotion for me. And with tears streaming down my cheeks, I promised the staff at Thomas Edison Elementary that I would never forget them and I would do my best to someday make them proud.
Since my rescue, not a single day has passed that I have not thought about my saviors. Almost 20 years to the day, I returned to Thomas Edison Elementary and presented my teachers with the very first copies of my first book, A Child Called "It," which was dedicated to them, and was published on the 20-year anniversary of my rescueMarch 5, 1993. That evening my teachers sat in the front row of a capacity-filled auditorium, as I fulfilled my lifetime dream of making my teachers feel special. I looked at them, with tears now running down their faces, and said, "As a
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child I learned that teachers have but one goal: to somehow make a difference in the life of a child. In my case it was four teachers, my school nurse and my principal who fought and risked their careers to save the life of a child called 'It.' I cannot, nor will not, ever forget their courage and their conviction. Twenty years ago I made a promise to my teachers. And tonight I renew my vow. For me it is not a matter of maintaining a pledge to those who had an effect on my life. For me, it is simply a matter of honor."
Dave Pelzer
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The Lesson Plan
The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings.
Okakura Kukuzo
It was just an ordinary day. The children came to school on buses; there was the usual hubbub of excitement as they greeted each other. I looked over my plan book and I never felt better prepared to face the day. It would be a good day, I knew, and we would accomplish a lot. We took our places around the reading table and settled in for a good reading class. The first thing on my agenda was to check workbooks to see that the necessary work had been completed.
When I came to Troy, he had his head down as he shoved his unfinished assignment in front of me. He tried to pull himself back out of my sight as he sat on my right-hand side. Naturally, I looked at the incomplete work and said, "Troy, this is not finished."
He looked up at me with the most pleading eyes I have seen in a child and said, "I couldn't do it last night 'cuz my mother is dying."
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The sobs that followed startled the entire class. How glad I was that he was sitting next to me. Yes, I took him in my arms and his head rested against my chest. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Troy was hurting, hurting so much that I was afraid his little heart would break. His sobs echoed through the room and tears flowed copiously. The children sat with tear-filled eyes in dead silence. Only Troy's sobs broke the stillness of that morning class. One child raced for the Kleenex box while I just pressed his little body closer to my heart. I could feel my blouse being soaked by those precious tears. Helplessly, my tears fell upon his head.