Can You Make a Difference, Part 2

When I was teaching in a jail school, people were always asking, "Can you make a difference?"  Most teachers know change does happen, and it happens often enough right in the classroom to keep us flinging our hearts up on the blackboard.  In fact, we live for those moments when we see a light flicker on in a dark place.

Teachers are also full of dark places. Interactions with our students change us irrevocably ‑‑ and change is painful.

Pete had taken my communication course at night school.  He was hoping to get into college full‑time.  He had been a young offender in his teens, and now wanted to be a youth worker.  After the course was over, we continued to talk, usually about his romantic and cash flow problems.

To help his cash flow, I asked Pete to come over to reshingle my leaking roof.  He brought a recent acquaintance.

At one point, I let the acquaintance into the house to "make a phone call."  It turned out he was actually looking for theft‑worthy goods.

A few months later, I had a break‑in.  The thief found spare car keys and used my car to take my computer and other items for his clients.

My IBM clone

He smashed up my car in a four‑car collision and was seen fleeing the accident, carrying my guitar.  I was devastated, especially for the loss of poetry, stories, and teaching materials that were saved on my computer ‑‑ and nowhere else.

The police asked me to think of everyone who had been in my house in the past six months.  Witnesses at the accident said the driver was in his 20s, blond, and bearded.

I called Pete and, before I said anything, he sighed, "Oh no, not you, too."  It turns out his "friend" had broken into Pete's house and the homes of everyone he had met during the weeks the two of them were socializing.

Pete gave me his friend's name.  At the police station, I discovered the friend had a record and I identified his picture.

Pete came over to talk.  He felt responsible.  He was profoundly apologetic and crying and wished he'd never brought the guy over.  He also let it slip that he knew the receiver of the stolen goods - the fence - but would not name him.  Pete had served his time and been rehabilitated, but he still knew everyone in his criminal community.

Pete also told me that he might know where my computer was.

Apparently, an escort service had put out an "order" for a computer.  Which escort service?  He would not tell me that ‑‑ but he imagined the new "owners" had got rid of the computer by now since they heard the police were looking for their  supplier. 

He knew the fence and probably the recipient as well.

I believe he was sorry.  He pleaded with me to understand.  But he was afraid, so he chose to protect his criminal acquaintances rather than help out someone who had helped him.

I felt disgusted. Our friendship was over.

Eight months pass.  The phone rings late one night.  It's Pete calling from a village on the west coast.

He just wanted to say hi.  He'd moved on.  He was working for some cousin, reading a lot, and living alone.

Two years pass.  I get another call ‑‑ this time from Kingston.  Pete, again "just checking in," saying he's working and staying out of trouble.

I said, "I'm glad to hear it."  What else could I say?

But now, I realize that he was apologizing the only way he knew how:  By getting a job ‑‑ and staying out of trouble.

Sometimes a change in our students comes only from our profound disappointment in them. 

As for me, I gradually learned to be less naive, more cautious ‑‑ less trusting.

This story was originally published in 1999 in The Hamilton Spectator when I was on their  community editorial board.

For more on teaching in the jail school, please see Can You Make a Difference (Part 1)

What's in a Name?

Mice will play when the cat's gone.  For schoolchildren, the cat is the teacher, and a substitute teacher is a licence to party.  I once worked as a substitute teacher.  In my interview for the position, I was asked, "What are three ways you maintain order in the classroom, and discuss each of these three ways in terms of your philosophy of education?"

"That's easy," I bluffed.  "I control the class, first, with my confidence.  If I seem to know why I'm there, the class is more secure.  Second, with my enthusiasm.  If I'm excited about my lesson, the students become excited too.  Finally, I use a pocketful of Hershey's chocolate kisses.
They hired me, but they knew and I knew that survival in the classroom requires more than confidence, enthusiasm, and kisses.  While schools have behaviour policies with serious consequences and occasional student-of-the-month type rewards, these are difficult for a stand-in to memorize five minutes before the bell.
My first assignment was a grade 8 class.  The previous sub had left at 10:30 a.m.  Much to the principal's surprise and relief, I stayed the whole day.  I survived -- but I was not pleased.  The students had a powerful tool to confound me:  they knew their names and I did not.  Much of the day had gone like this:

"You -- stop throwing those paper airplanes.  What's your name?"
"Butthead."

There are always seating plans, but these aren't much good  when they find out there's a sub.  Not only does everyone sit where they like, but students wander in from the hall and insist they belong in my class.  I needed a strategy.  If I could address students by name, they would have to be accountable, and I'd have more control.
A week later, I was assigned a grade 6 in the same middle school.  I decided that the students would wear nametags...but what if they gave me the wrong names?  I felt doomed, but suddenly through my dark fear, a light began to shine.  I would make wearing nametags a reward!
The day began with the usual rioting.  During a momentary lull after O Canada, I said authoritatively, "I have nametags for you -- but not everyone's going to get one -- because to have a nametag means to have a real, true name -- a name of your own, a name that sets you apart from all others and declares, ‛I am me!'  What happens when you have a name?"
Someone shouted, "People know what to call you."
"Exactly.  And if they know what to call you -- they can call you for dinner.  If they know what to call you, they don't say, ‛Hey you.’  They say, ‛Gee Anna, your story is great,’ or ‛Wow, John, that's a cool earring,’ but when you have no name, your identity is erased.  You get blamed for other people's crimes.  You disappear.  When you have a true name, you are unique -- but you only get a nametag if you tell me your real name."  I held my breath.
"I'll tell you my name," a boy in front piped up.
"OK, what is it?"
"William"
"Is it?"  I looked around the class -- they're all nodding.  William showed me a notebook with his name on it.  "OK.  I believe you.  William, you get the first nametag and a Hershey's kiss.  As long as you're in my class, I want you to wear this."  I wrote "William" on the sticky-backed labels I had brought, and ceremoniously placed it on his shirt.  William was beaming.  The next instant, everyone was clamouring for a nametag.
I gave the class their math assignment and promised to visit each desk and name each one of them while they worked.  I hoped that the magic of being named would last till noon.

What's Your Philosophy of Education?

In my many years of teaching and learning, here are a few of the things I've discovered:

1. Feed Them

Most of my teaching philosophy was probably developed during my first teaching job, on a reservation 40 km north of Whistler, BC.  It was 1974.  Attendance seemed to be a suggestion at times rather than a rule.  Together with the kids that did show up, I started making soup.  I had a big pot and a one-burner hot plate.  We'd peel and slice carrots and potatoes.  We'd throw in whatever else we had -- onions, leeks, barley, fish heads - and have it simmering by 9:00 a.m.  By recess, it was ready.  The kids started showing up.  Even the high school kids who studied in another part of our building would line up at the Grade 1 door for hot soup.

2. Feed Them What They Are Hungry For

My second full-time position was in a private school in Ontario. The kids there were well fed but hungered for recognition, attention, and individualization.

3. Feed Them Your Presence and Demand Theirs

A few years later, I quit elementary school teaching and became a graduate student.  As a teaching assistant at university, I encountered young adults, suddenly free from high school, who were hungry in a new way.  They wanted a feeling of being alive.  They were hungry for experience and meaning.

4. High School

Some years later, and hungry myself, I took a one-semester job in a high school.  This group seemed hungry as well, hungry for trouble - and they all seemed much bigger than me.  I couldn't feed them anything.  In fact, at one point, I left the classroom and crouched in a washroom cubicle, broken and weeping.  The department head took over and I told the principal I was leaving for the day.  Some miles down the highway, I stopped at a restaurant near the airport, the Runway Café, and thought things over.  I phoned the principal:

"I'm coming back," I said.

"After they drive you from the classroom, there's no coming back," he told me.

"I'm coming back.  I'll be there in half an hour," I said.

Strangely, after that, the class was much better.  They realized how much worse it would be for them if the department head took the class for the rest of the semester.

This was an important part of my evolving teaching philosophy.  After they drive you from the classroom, you can go back.  But it's probably wiser to find a classroom where you can teach (or nurture) effectively.

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In an earlier post, I wrote about teaching in a jail school.  The young offenders were hungry for music, especially gangster music with parental advisory warnings.  With the right mix of ritalin and rap music, the students could actually get work done on their individualized programs. 

Why Is Public Speaking So Difficult?

"Every time someone speaks, it's bravery."

I was half-listening to the radio the other day when those words caught my ear. Since I teach public speaking, I decided to put that concept before my class.  If it's bravery to speak, I asked them, what is at stake?  What do we stand to lose by speaking up?

     "You might look stupid," someone replied.
     "What do you stand to lose by looking stupid?" I asked.

Their answers included your reputation, respect, friends, and more.  Speaking up is dangerous.  Malala Yousufzai, the 14-year-old Pakistani girl who spoke up for the right of girls to be educated, was shot on October 9, shot for having a voice.

"What do you stand to lose by not speaking up?"  I asked the class.  Their answers included time and money.

There is much to lose by not speaking up.  In September, many people became sick with E. coli infections from beef originating at XL Foods, an Alberta meat processing plant.  Many workers did not speak up due to fear of reprisals.  They were laid off anyway.  And their silence made others sick.  Their silence might have killed someone.

The tainted beef story involves too much silence - even the Canadian Food Inspection Agency did not speak up for two weeks after discovering a problem with the beef.

Does our culture encourage silence?

We each need to examine our fear of speaking on a case-by-case basis.  Are we willing to speak up when we see a dangerous workplace, incompetent workers, or bad management decisions?  Are there ways of speaking up that stress mutual goals and reduce personal risk?  Are you afraid to speak up?

"Even if they come to kill me, I will tell them what they are trying to do is wrong, that education is our basic right."   -- Malala Yousufzai

Can You Make a Difference?

"Success isn't about how much money you make.  It's about the difference you make in people's lives."      -- Michelle Obama

This quote from Michelle Obama's speech (September 4, 2012) reminded me of an essay I wrote in 2000 when I taught in a jail school.  Here's my thoughts on making a difference in that one context:

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In September, school begins again for most kids.  I've been teaching in a detention centre for young offenders, and our school runs all summer.  This is a good thing because by the time these kids end up in custody, they have usually missed a lot of school.

When I tell people where I work, their first response is to express concerns about my safety.  After all, children are in custody for assault, manslaughter, robbery -- the same crimes adults commit.  I reassure them that a detention centre school is safer than many high schools.  Their next question is, "Do you think you can make a difference?"  I dance around the question, perhaps replying, "Of course I  make a difference.  While they're in my class, they're not out stealing your car."  But I suspect that's not the answer my questioners were seeking.

Can I make a difference?  Those of us who work with young offenders wonder this a lot, especially when a child returns three months after his release.  If children do stay out of trouble, it's due to their own efforts and the hard work of child care workers, social workers, parole officers, parents, as well as teachers.

Will I have some kind of intangible effect on these students?  One day, 20 years from now, the students may remember that I encouraged them or trusted them -- and  that helped them get their lives on track?  My friend, Rachel, worked in an education program with disadvantaged youth.   Many had been young offenders and some were in the program as a condition of parole or bail.  Rachel expressed despair over what she called "the unremitting and heartbreaking disappointment intrinsic to the work."

"There's so little immediate positive reaction to the classroom experiences," she says, "that teachers dream up this 20-year theory to comfort themselves.  When activities are constantly rejected by clients in the present, how can they be viewed as positive 20 years later?"

The math teacher at my facility, Hilary, has a different point of view.  She uses the stock market to help children practice math skills.  Everyone in the class invests 100,000 imaginary dollars.  As they follow the changes in the market and become aware of economic forces, they practice adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing.  Hilary says she ran into one of her former students downtown.  The first thing this 14-year-old said was, "Hey, Miss, did CIBC and TD merge?"

Amazed, Hilary realized that she can make students more aware one step at a time.  She sees that when the children return to jail, they slide back into the program and pick up their math lessons where they left off.  These students perform well in a small, structured, consistent environment.  Hilary says you can't look at the big picture.  We have to look at small individual differences.  All of these together can add up to a significant difference.

We never know just what will make a difference to another person.  My friend, Bernie, played high school basketball.  Once, in a playoff game, he missed every shot in the first half.  His coach was still willing to play him in the second half.  He says the willingness of that coach to play him made a huge difference in his life.  He was ready to give up -- but the coach could see something in him that he couldn't yet see himself.  He sank every shot in the second half.  Now Bernie's a jailteacher too.

Most of us in this job believe that the best place for these kids to be is around us. One of my students is reading Romeo and Juliet while listening to an audio cassette of the play.  He then watches two versions of Romeo and Juliet on video.  He can experience Shakespeare's story of tender love amidst senseless hate for an hour a day in a quiet, supportive environment --  an experience he never had on the outside.

Can I make a difference?  I honestly don't know.  But a girl in custody in British Columbia sent me an e-mail with her answer to the question.  She says, "I can tell you from my personal experience of being in a jail, that yes, you teachers do make a difference.  It may not seem like it at first.  Most of us aren't used to someone trying to help us, so when a hand is offered, we get wary.  My teacher has done a lot for me.  He has not only taught me how to keep from swearing at a piece of wood, but he taught me that if I have patience, wood can turn into a thing of beauty.  In addition, I can talk to him about everything.  It's great to know that there are people out there that even want to try to make a difference."

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"What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make."      -- Jane Goodall 

What do you think?  Can you, can we, make a difference?

What Do You Remember from Your Schooldays? Part I

We certainly learn a great deal in our 15-20 years of schooling, but how many specific moments do we remember?

Back in the late 80s, just this time of year, I was getting ready to teach the first class of the semester to 40 electrical engineering students at Mohawk College in Hamilton, Ontario.  I was watching my round, red kitchen wall clock -- but the hour hand had slipped and it was later than I thought.  By the time I showed up for class, the students had left.  This was not going to help build a relationship of trust.

I held my first class with them two days later.  I apologized for my earlier absence and promised it wouldn't happen again.  I then pulled out the old clock and a hammer, and smashed the clock into tiny pieces in front of them.


Many years later, I ran into one of my former students.  He said, "Hey, I know you.  You're the teacher that smashed the clock."  Then, "Yeah, that's about all I remember from my college days."

What do you remember?