The Point of It All

Today I organized my first award ceremony. The assistant principal had a genius idea—line up all the teachers on the stage, and as the kids go up to get the certificate, they high-five all the teachers.

It was incredible. A huge swell of good feeling, of recognizing the top kids at the school, those who had been nominated for academics or for character or for growth, acted like an enormous stimulant. There were kids who got all three of the possible awards, and each time they circled back into the line the auditorium exploded with cheers. Cheering on kids I knew, some I didn’t, and personally high-fiving them as they walked across the stage was one of the best highs I’ve h

ad as a teacher.

Setting it up was pretty easy, as once we’d decided that we wanted an award ceremony, a whole bunch of teachers chipped in. Some donated food, others did the complicated work of merging nominated students onto award certificates, and still others lined up the children in the hallway in alphabetical order (no mean feat). It had been depressing when, soliciting teachers personally for award nominations, numerous teachers said they couldn’t think of a single child who deserved an award, but the teachers who came through far outweighed those who have been broken by the brutal realities of our school. As I ran like a maniac between lines of children in the hallway and lines of teachers in the foyer, my own students laughed at my organizational obsessiveness. They’ve been doing that a lot lately.

This morning, I looked up from helping a student and broke off mid-sentence. My entire class was staring at me, silently. They looked like a pet when it’s made a mess on the carpet. I scanned the room, but everything was fine. Except that they were still staring at me. So I casually dropped down into a chair to see if being out of their eye level would change things. Nope—they were still staring at me.

“Ha, okay, guys, what did you do?”  No answer. I became painfully aware of the way my hair was sticking up on one side of my head. I smoothed it down. They still stared.

Slowly, I moved to the front of the classroom, subtly checking that all my buttons were buttoned, my zippers zipped. They were. But still they stared. Just as casually, I opened the door and walked out. Don’t get me wrong—having my students’ full attention is a blessing I usually crave. But their concentrated stares were disconcerting. I had my next-door neighbor teacher check me over—was I missing anything? Did I have marker on my face? No.

When I returned, every single kid had their heads down on their desk. So I sat down and laughed, and laughed, and laughed until I cried and they had picked their heads up to join me. “Psych!” They were so proud of themselves. They told me they had “reset our class norms.” Yuh-huh, okay, kiddos. Okay. So I gave them their next challenge—how can you reset the norms in our whole school? We’re still pondering what we want the norm to be.

My blog has been suffering, lately. You can't write good copy about awesome students. The stories are less impressive, the emotions, though still enthrallingly strong, are no longer violent, and the foreign factor disappears. Students who are winning awards and playing with their teacher in class don't quite have the same valence as students who throw desks or end up in jail. The thing is, it's the same kids. I've just learned how to access their awesome. The brilliance that they hold inside of themselves, the silliness and depth of compassion and thinking, is beginning to be seen. I walk through my classroom thinking that I have to stop, wait, treasure every second; classes go too quickly, and my time with these students is limited. We're already halfway through the semester now-- I have only one more quarter at my school. 

Lately, my kids have me on an Anthony Hamilton kick. This, today, watching kids gang up on their teacher in class, and swagger across a stage because they are AWESOME—this is the point of it all.