Snake as Teacher

Recess has just begun.  I am walking through the paved circle in front of the school, on my way to open up the field for the students.  I stop in my tracks as a thin, bright green snake slithers out from the grass onto the pavement in front of my feet.  I take a sharp inhale and hold my breath, put one hand to my mouth, and one to my chest.  I hear the rumble of footsteps behind me and I know that the students will be here momentarily.  I know that how I react will matter.  It will be a model for them.

I choose curiosity over fear.

I turn around and yell, "Hey!  There's a really cool snake over here!  Come see!"  Dozens of heads whip around to face me.  Dozens of pairs of feet start pumping in my direction.  "Wait!" I yell.  "Walk gently.  Don't scare it.  It can feel the vibration of your feet coming."  They slow instantly down and place each foot gently in their approach.

Before long, a whole gaggle of us are in a half circle watching the beautiful snake slither gracefully across the pavement.  The humid, fall air fills with the breath of our whispered questions as we huddle in wonder.

"I feel sorry for him," one girl points out.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because he's not made to slither on pavement.  I bet that hurts his belly."

"Why does he keep stopping to lift and sway his head like that?  What is he doing?" Another girl wonders quietly.

"He's gettin' jiggy with it," a boy comments with a laugh.  We all giggle.

"Look!  He just ate a mosquito!" A seventh grade girl exclaims.

We stand like this for several minutes, slowly walking in our half-circle formation, following the snake as he glides in his silky S-formation all the way across the pavement into the grass.  No one says, "Ew!"  No one expresses fear.

I am struck by their curiosity and compassion.  I am moved that they chose to watch the snake over play soccer or gossip with their friends.  I am inspired by the connection between all living things; it does not need to be taught or explained.  It is there.  It is perfect.

All in Good Time

"So how was everyone's weekend?" I ask my group of advisory students.  They are aged 6th-8th grade.  We are sitting in a circle on the rug eating our lunch together and talking about our weekends, as we do every Monday.  Mr. B. raises his hand to share first.  (Mr. B. has many unique and delightful quirks to his 8th grade personality, among them being asked to be called "Mr. B." instead of his name.)

"This weekend, I got a new video game -" Mr. B. croaks out in a very strange, grovelly voice.

"Mr. B," I interrupt, "are you ok?"

"Yes," he croaks, "Why - does it sound like my voice is cracking?"

"No. . . " I reply slowly, never sure where the conversation will go with Mr. B.  "It sounds like you're a bit sick.  Can you speak in your regular voice so we can understand you better?"

"Ok.  So I got this new video game for DS.  It's about -" He is still croaking and I can tell that he is forcing it.  I don't understand why and everyone is looking at him quizzically.  I interrupt again.

"Mr. B.  Please use your regular voice."

"Ugh!"  He shakes his thin fist in the air and I can see his scrunched up eyes behind his thick glasses.  "I just want my voice to crack so it means I'm going through puberty!"

I stifle a laugh, as do many other students in the room.  A boy next to me shakes his head in knowing sympathy and says under his breath, "You just gotta wait for it, man."

Unconventional Methods

"Adam, what's wrong?" I ask, crouching down next a 6th grade boy with a blank, white paper in front of him.  His pencil is clenched in his hand, his head hung low, his eyes a bit watery.

"I can't write." He says.  "I'm just not a writer.  And I know what you're thinking - I read a lot and I have a big vocabulary and I tell a lot of funny stories and make people laugh, but it's different when it comes to writing.  So don't try to make me.  I can't."

I have just assigned a simple writing exercise for the first time this school year; a focused, personal narrative about a memorable moment from their summer.  Just a page long, I am simply wanting a general idea of each students' current writing capabilities.  I am shocked at Adam's reaction.  His speaking is mature beyond his years.  He has a natural gift for story-telling.  It is obvious to me that he must have some sort of mental block around writing.

"Hmm.  I don't believe you."  I say.  "You're obviously a writer.  You just haven't figured out how to write yet."  He lifts one eyebrow at me.  "Sometimes people prefer typing instead.  Should I get a laptop for you from the cart?"

"No," he replies instantly.  "It doesn't make any difference.  I've tried that."

"Oh ok.  Well I know you're a very active boy.  Sometimes people think best when they're moving.  We could -"

"No.  I've tried occupational therapy and all kinds of stuff.  Listen, Melanie, I'm not trying to be rude.  I just can't write.  My parents and all my past teachers and I have been through this so many times.  There's nothing you can do."  His eyes fill with more tears and he turns his head away from me. 

I need to get his mind off of the writing for awhile.  I need a way to get at the stories in his head from another direction.  I have an idea.  It is not based on research and it has no foundation in sound education principles.  It's just a wacky idea.  But it requires Adam and I leaving the classroom for awhile.  I glance around.  The rest of the class is writing quietly.

"Ok.  I trust you," I tell Adam.  Then, I lower my voice to a whisper and lean in, "So let's do something else for this period, then, while the rest of the class is writing.  Something I just thought of."  I put a twinkle in my eye, and he looks up, intrigued.

"What?" he asks.  I don't answer.  I just get up and walk to the classroom door, motioning for him to follow me.  He unclenches his fist from his pencil and sets it on the table, following me to the door.  I quietly open it and walk out.  He glances behind him at the class, still quietly writing at their desks.  He looks back at me with wide, questioning eyes.  I close the door behind us and rush to the door outside.

We get outside and he says, "What are we doing?"

"I'm going to race you to the top of the spacenet climber, and you have to answer every question I ask as fast as you can, without thinking.  Deal?"

He pauses and cocks his head at me.  "Deal."

"Go!" I run as fast as I can in my cowboy boots to the spacenet climber at the other end of the playground.  It is a very tall tangle of red rope, rising into a pyramid.  It is no small feat to climb to the top, especially in cowboy boots.  "Where did you go this summer?" I shout.

"Um, Ocean City," he shouts back.

"And what did you do there?"

"Went go-carting."

"Awesome.  I've never been.  What is it like?" I ask, getting breathless now, halfway up the climber.

"It's freakishly scary!" he laughs, getting ahead of me on the ropes.  "My dad was even scared!"

"What did it sound like?"

"Like a pinball machine.  Loud.  Crazy!" he laughs more.  "Ha!  I won!" he shouts from the top, one arm raised in victory.

"Barely!" I pant as I join him at the top.  "Now back down."

We scrambled down the spacenet climber in half the time it took us to get up as I fired as many more questions at him as I could.  We hit the mulch with a "thump." We ran back into the hallway, back into the classroom.  Some of the students lifted their heads to stare at us in wonder.  We were sweaty and panting. 

I grabbed Adam's wrist and dragged him back to his desk.  I picked up his pencil and wrote "go-carting" in the center of his paper.  From that, I webbed out all of his words that I could remember, from "freakishly scary" to "Ocean City" and "sounded like a pinball machine."  Then, before he could say a word, I put the pencil back in his hand, hit the piece of paper firmly with my palm, and said, "Now WRITE."

I walked away and immediately began talking to another student so Adam could not follow me in protest.  About ten minutes later, he walked up to me with a sheepish grin on his face.  He outstretched his arm with the piece of paper in offering.  It was half filled with sentences.  I jumped and squealed with delight, grabbing the paper out of his hand.

Then I knelt in front of him and took his shoulders firmly.  "From now on, you are a writer.  You may never say otherwise in my class again.  Do you understand?"

"But -" he started to protest.

"No.  Never again.  I will kick you out."  He stared at me in challenge, his eyes silently asking if I was serious.  "Try me," I said.

"Ok.  I'm a writer."