Finding the Courage to Learn

By Cindy Reitzi,
Madison substitute teacher
May 2001

Courage is one of those qualities that is difficult to wrap our hands around. To better articulate it, as with any abstraction, we give courage physical dimensions: we rescue a child or pet from a burning building or we display bravado on the sports field. Dramatic courage. Less celebrated, less recognized is mental or emotional courage, the internal, private courage that is often invisible to us.

The abstract version of emotional courage in our day-to-day relationships is the courage to parent a disabled child, the persistent courage to live with chronic illness and “not go gentle into that good night.”* It is the simplicity of apologizing when you are wrong; it is the effort of taking responsibility for wrong actions and their effects on another; it is the process of restoring damaged trust.

In school, it is the quiet courage of coming to class and participating every day, even when you can’t read.
Trent** looks like an unlikely living metaphor for courage: He is sullen, defensive, angry, and utterly resistant to any academic help from me. His special ed teacher quipped that the process of stabilizing Trent at the beginning of the school year made her seriously ponder a career change.

I walk into his science class and introduce myself. “I’m Ms. Reitzi. I’ll be working with you this morning.”

“No, you’re not,” he states definitively. He gives me a hostile look and moves to a seat as far away from me as possible. I don’t pursue him and keep a polite distance. Not a good beginning.
At first, he’s flat out rude (“Get away from me!”), but then we negotiate an armistice of sorts.

“Look, it’s OK if you don’t want me to help you. It’s not OK to be rude to me. Just say ‘no thank you’ if you don’t want help.” He grunts his assent.

Earlier that morning, Trent’s teacher gave me some background on him.

“Well, Trent is just beginning to read this year. I mean, just …” I give her a quizzical look.

“The alphabet … letter sounds,” she tells me in meaningful shorthand. I give her an astonished look. Trent is in 9th grade.
“He’s had a rough life,” she says by way of explanation. “He’s moved a lot.”

Given this background, I don’t take offense and can’t really begrudge his reaction to me. He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t trust me. Why would he want to potentially humiliate himself in front of a stranger? Besides, I’m not going to convince him to work with me in one short morning.

As a substitute teacher in elementary schools and high schools, I am hearing the phrases, “he’s had a rough life” and “he’s moved a lot,” more and more to explain student circumstances. For a student who has chronologically reached 9th grade branded with illiteracy, I wonder, does he comes to school every day? Has he bonded with any of his teachers or the staff at the school? Has he made friends? How angry is he that he can barely read? What will happen to him?

As the morning progresses, his attitude softens, although he still doesn’t want my help. I decide to ask him once in each class if he wants assistance. Each time I ask him, he responds politely, “No. I want my teacher to help me.”

This is a hopeful sign. He trusts his teachers; he’s learning to read, however slowly, and more importantly, he’s willing to learn. Still, students like Trent are generally not very independent in their classroom or study habits. They need one-on-one attention; they are impatient; they lash out in frustration because they are “behind.” Or, they silently “check out” in despair.

After a restless start in reading class, I wonder if he will check out. He doesn’t want to work with me, and his teacher is busy with another student. Then, he surprises me. Without prompting, he picks up a decoding book and begins slowly working through it while he waits for his teacher’s assistance. Persistence and quiet courage.

Now, if he can only stay in one place ...

*“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” – Dylan Thomas
** Not his real name.