A Day in the Life...
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What can be learned from following one student for one day? First, you need a student. The first student I chose to shadow was a tall, handsome Afro-American young man who is in one of the classes I will take over next term. He looks like he should play basketball – and like he could. But he’s too into his reputation for trouble. He’s pretty proud about how much trouble he’s been in. I would have liked to have spent the day with him, but he skipped school the day I planned to approach him. No one knew where he was. The attendance office had received no contact from him. Strike one. I kept my eyes and ears open and found another young man from one of the classes I will have next term. His schedule had been changed so he was new to that class. I met him his first day in class and my immediate impression was that he is nice and a little slow. He is a husky, Afro-American young man who plays on the Junior varsity football team. He is also handsome and stylish, but he has been alone most of the times I have seem him. I look forward to getting to know him, but it won’t be during this assignment. I carefully explained the assignment; he mentally checked his schedule and said tomorrow would work for him. I thanked him and said “See you tomorrow.” Only I didn’t. The next day, he was absent and the attendance office had heard nothing from him or his family, which was weird, the person in the office said, because this young man and his family usually stay in close contact with the school. Strike two. Here it is an hour into Friday. What am I going to do? I wanted to finish this assignment this week. I walked down one hall, then another, but everyone was in class; and would be for the next half hour. Then I saw a young Hispanic man walking with a hall pass. Should I approach him? Nah. I want to hang out with a student from one of my classes. I wandered the halls for a while longer, then saw that same young man again. Maybe it’s a sign. I approached him, introduced myself and explained my request. He said, “Sure.” But I wasn’t sure he understood. It just didn’t seem like it really registered. I asked if he really understood what I was asking and if he had any questions about it. He assured me that he understood and that it was “cool”. I had made contact. So I began following this young man, who I will call “Al Gomez”. Here is what I saw and experienced… First, he didn’t wait for me. Al walked quickly ahead of me back to the class he came from. He arrived there before me, and as I entered the room, the teacher was heading toward Al with a frown on her face. To get to the back of the room, where Al was sitting, the teacher had to get past where I had just entered. She hesitated in front of me for a second and asked if she could help me. I said I was with Al. She asked if he had been talking with me. Yes, actually he had. “So that’s why he was late,” she said. The class had a guest speaker, the president of a local, successful manufacturing company. The speaker was doing a good job. He was talking about what skills are important in the workplace. He used the metaphor of skills as tools, and had brought a big tool chest. He had different students come forward and try to accomplish various tasks with different tools until they found the right tool for the job. This was obviously a presentation he has given before and he was video taping himself so he could critique himself later. He seemed to want to be there and to care about the students. Only there was one problem. The speaker was using big words and a business, or technical, style of speaking. In the class of fifteen, there were four Hispanic students and a variety of academic levels represented. The speaker lost the Hispanic students early, and lost more of the students as he went on. He almost lost me a couple times. Al started out very respectful. He quietly sat at his desk and stared at his folder, looked around the room, or stared at his shoes. But he only lasted about 15 minutes. He began talking in short, sporadic sentences to the student next to him. Then he began playfully punching that student in the arm. The student seemed to love it, and began taunting Al so he would punch him. Another student asked to use the hall pass, and as he passed Al’s seat, the two of them talked for a couple minutes. Al began to seem oblivious to the rest of the room and what was going on there. He talked, punched, lightly drummed on his desk, got out of his seat to look at things on the walls. The teacher never talked to him, or even looked at him. It was as though he didn’t exist to the teacher; so he returned the sentiment. The classes are short today because of a special assembly at the end of the day. Soon the bell rings and Al takes off. I run to keep him in sight. He tips his head – “what’s up” – to many students. He seems to be known and respected by a number of students. In the next class Al is even more interesting. After setting his bag down, he leaves class in a hurry and returns just before the bell. The teacher starts class and announces what they are going to do, but Al wanders around at the side of the room, looking through magazines and old newspapers. He’s the only student out of his seat. The teacher begins a movie, which the class will watch for the rest of the shortened period. Al continually moves from his seat to the stack of magazines and newspapers. I wonder if he is really reading them. The teacher comes over to me and talks about Al in whispers. The teacher says he feels Al is slipping through the system. He thinks many teachers are intimidated by Al. He says he estimates that Al is at a sixth grade level academically, and that he, the teacher, has repeatedly asked the counseling center to meet with Al and see if he needs an IEP or something. The teacher thinks Al needs one on one tutoring; he says Al has learned that if he is quiet and respectful, teachers will leave him alone. But this teacher thinks Al has a lot of trouble reading. The teacher leaves the room for a while and returns with several documents from Al’s file that he lets me look at, but won’t let me take. I am impressed with the teacher’s insight and concern. Teaching has become a job difficult to define. Are you an instructor? Probation officer? Career coach? Psychologist? Abuse Counselor? Drug & Alcohol Specialist? Mentor? Brace yourself for criticism if you are not all these things… to all 130 students you see in a day, in the hour or so per day that you see them. But still I wonder: who’s going to reach Al? He’s been flying under the radar. In this class, Al keeps to himself. Although other students make comments or have side conversations, he doesn’t speak and seems to disappear. He glances at the movie, but doesn’t watch it; he seems a little nervous. I wonder if the language barrier makes the movie hard for him to understand. He draws for a bit and goes to the bathroom for a long time. When he returns, he continues to go back and forth from his seat to the stacks of magazines. The class ends and off we go. I try to keep up. Al is greeted with many nods and friendly gestures. When we’re out in the halls, with all the people, I get a strong sense that Al enjoys being at school. We reach the next classroom and go through the same ritual. Al sets his bag along the wall and quickly leaves. I catch him before he goes, though, and ask if this is his next class. “Yeah, next.” he says. Sometimes I am sure that Al understands everything that is going on, but sometimes I worry that Al struggles with comprehending English. This is one of those times. Al never returns to this class. When I get a chance, I ask the teacher if this is Al’s class; it is not. “He must have first lunch,” I think. “He meant this is his next class after lunch.” I ask the teacher this. But Al is not in the class after this one either. Did he give me the slip? Unsure of what to do, I head out into the cafeteria, searching for my student. I look out in front of the building. I look out back. I look down the halls. I ask other students. I decide that if he has given me the slip, I’m going to make the best of it. I sit in the cafeteria and talk with different students. Lunch ends and the students head to their classes. I am alone in the halls again when it hits me: the attendance office. They can tell me where Al is supposed to be. I get Al’s schedule from them and sure enough, he’s in class – just a different class than he left his books in. This class has twenty minutes left. I hang out in the hall, nodding at the occasional student or campus monitor, trying not to look as awkward as I feel. I catch Al as the class lets out. “What are you up to?” I ask. He nods. I try again, “Are you going to lunch?” “Yeah,” he says. “What are you up to?” he asks me. “Hanging out with you, if that’s alright.” “Yeah…” then he pauses. “Well, I gotta meet my girlfriend. We’re gonna… walk, you know, during lunch.” That’s fine with me. “I’ll just meet you in class next period… where your backpack is, right?” I head into the cafeteria. In the cafeteria, there are a few tables where students seem to segregate themselves. I have noticed this before and noticed it in other high schools. I ask if I can sit at a table of Latino students. They look at each other. Sure, they shrug. The students quickly open up and begin talking with me, but they don’t always understand my questions and I don’t always understand their answers. They are not segregating themselves. They just want to talk. The language barrier is real. With a mix of awe and pain, I wonder how students cope with it. These students seem to have only good to say about school and about this school. They like their teachers; the one guy who has met the principal really likes him. They are full of dreams, plans, and energy. On my way to the next class, I meet Al in the hallway; he’s by himself again. I ask about his girlfriend. He says he just met her here at West. It’s the second week of school; is that kinda fast to hook up with someone, I wonder to myself? The next class is a Skills English class. Skills must be the new word for Remedial. This class is all juniors, all boys, who are behind in their reading and writing. This class is shocking. Everyone does their own thing during class. Students are talking together, talking from across the room, and moving around at will. The hall pass is in constant use; the students take turns in a steady stream leaving the room. The teacher reads to the students as though they were listening, but they’re not. In spite of all the talking, Al doesn’t talk to anyone. He yawns loudly and makes general comments and noises: “Ho, man. When is this class over?” As in his other classes, he is out of his chair a lot. He goes to his bag, looks through the newspaper on the teacher’s desk, and goes to the window and stares out. He takes his turn with the hall pass and is gone for 10 minutes. Al is not necessarily a distraction to the class, just to himself. He stays awake and is not spastic, but he is nearly completely disengaged; he often watches the teacher, but does not participate. And this class isn’t helping. Nothing is explained. The teacher does not explain concepts, the story, difficult words, definitions… anything. The teacher occasionally asks questions, and a few students randomly guess until they happen upon the right answer, or until the teacher gives them the answer. The horrifying reality is that most of the students seem to want to learn. They want to know, solve, and discover. There are brief flashes of interest, even excitement, but the spark dies quickly. Several students yawn loudly. Al behaves much better than I would if I had to sit through this class. I try to engage Al with some questions. But the language barrier gets between us. “What is something good about school?” I ask. “Yeah, good.” he replies. He seems insecure in the classroom; he seems careful to avoid participation or being called on. With about 10 minutes left, Al begins to announce how many minutes remain. He is excited to get home. “Sick of this shit,” he says in a singsong way. Class ends and the school heads to a special assembly. Al acts unsure, as though he doesn’t want me to follow him. “I can just meet you at the assembly, if you want.” I offer. “OK.” “Do you have to go somewhere or meet someone?” I ask. “Yeah.” “Your ‘lady friend’,” I tease. “Yeah.” We agree to meet at the door to the gym. He walks aimlessly into the hall and looks around. I head to the gym and he quickly shows up. By himself again. Is there a girlfriend, I wonder? We stand off to one side of the hall, against the wall, waiting to enter the gym. I ask him about his reading. “I haven’t had a meeting,” he replies. He doesn’t look at me when we talk; his head and eyes are continually on the move. That could account for some of the misunderstanding. I reword my question and ask if writing, reading, or speaking are hard for him. “No,” he assures me. “My reading and writing is good.” We head into the gym for the Homecoming assembly. I tell him that I’m going to hang out by the doors, if that’s OK with him. He tips his head and moves away with the crowd. I watch him. He moves along by himself; he seems a little unsure. He sits with a group of students, but he is not “with” them. He is surrounded by other students, but he is alone. The longer I watch him, the more puzzled I become. He seems full of contradictions. Mature and juvenile. Popular and alone. Bright and lost. Responsible and failing. Today was not a “real” day because of the shortened classes, special assembly, and buzz of Homecoming. Still, no teacher called on Al; they let him sit without his materials, doing his own thing.
EPILOGUE In the following days, I ask other teachers what they know about Al. Few know who he is. Finally, in the lunchroom, one teacher overhears me and groans, “Oh. I know Al from last year.” Al spent the last half of last year at another local school. He seems to have moved a lot. The teacher continues, “Al was so frustrating. You couldn’t get him to do anything.” Two days later, I spot Al again. A teacher is talking to him privately in the hallway. As I pass, he and I nod and smile at each other; he seems pleased to see me. As soon as that period is over, I go to the room and talk with the teacher. “I see you were talking with Al in the hall,” I start. “Oh, he is so frustrating,” she begins. She goes on to describe how Al will not do any work. She says she tries to give him one on one attention, but even then he won’t work. He is especially frustrating because he is respectful and not disruptive to other students, so you can’t even engage him that way – by getting him in trouble and using consequences as leverage. She describes Al’s behavior in her class; it’s the same as every class: Al is out of his seat, doing his own thing, keeping to himself. The teacher says Al understands more than he lets on, but he just wants to be baby-sat. Even though Al is not in any of my classes, I see him now and then and we chat. He seems to like it when I call him “Mr. Gomez”. But I still don’t know him. Is he lazy? Is he lost? What can be learned from following one student for one day? Two things. First, teaching is not for the faint of heart. As I alluded earlier, the unpredictable, innumerable variety of student behaviors, issues, and abilities makes it hard to just instruct. But most teachers manage the multiple jobs with grace and skill. Interestingly, the teachers that get the most out of their students and have the fewest behavior problems find a way to focus on just instructing. And lastly, the more students disengage, the more they disengage. They don’t bring themselves back. |
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Grant Huhn |
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