The Right Place at the Right Time

By Cindy Reitzi

November 2003

Special education students hold a special place in my life. I have spent much of my subbing life in special ed in some capacity.

This year, I started working one-on-one or in small groups with mild-mannered students. Four weeks into the first quarter, I abruptly switched to large groups, again to teach English.

A raging head cold was making me stupid, and the 9th graders had already bonded with their “real” teacher. I arrived as “The Interloper,” at least according to the surlier teens. I was being tested so much that I felt like a Ph.D candidate in the School of Hard Knocks going through an oral defense of my teaching existence.

There was the huffy-storming-out-of-the-room-because-I-couldn’t-do-what-I-want-whenever-I-want student, (I wouldn’t let her run an errand during class when she had a test to take). There was the student who refused to put away her Walkman despite four requests that she do so (she put it away ever-so-slowly then took it out again), forcing me to confiscate it. (A week later I confiscated it again.) Then there were the manipulators with passes to the bathroom who returned 25 minutes later, or who asked for passes to the LMC then skipped out. In a final flourish, one student called me a racist when I was reminding another to speak respectfully to classmates. Ten minutes later, another student was swearing. All of this within a span of two days. It was the roughest school beginning I had ever experienced aside from summer school.

What kept me going was cold medicine, my own experience and inner resources, two other good classes, the emotional support and good advice of my colleagues, my own white-hot anger, and a resolve to put this house in order on Monday.

I also came across unasked-for support. Sometimes the right people show up to put it all in perspective. For me, the right person at the right time was “Marcus.” He appeared on the second floor stairwell after my sorest trial that morning.

• • •

Marcus was one of my 9th grade students two years ago. I remember him at the beginning of 9th grade: nervous, tentative, and hesitant to share his “My Name” paper in front of the class. His name meant “little warrior,” so I teased him that it was a good name for someone on the football team. He smiled reluctantly. He was in 5th hour, my magical class.

They were a hodgepodge of overachieving athlete-scholars, aspiring Shakespeareans, fence-sitting toughs, some trying-to-get-along-on-just-my-charm-and-good-looks reluctant students, a meditative Zen-like poet who always told me to “smile,” and lots of wide-eyed blurters. They had their own ethos. In this microcosm of America, they set the standard for tolerance, a sacred value of mine. And Marcus was in the middle of it all.

He gradually thawed as the year went on. Marcus became surer of himself, stopped slouching, and grew taller in height as though filling himself with confidence. He made the girls giggle in small groups. Occasionally, he would burst into spontaneous song, a bar or two of his favorite rap, but then would mumble into his shirt when I asked him a question. Again, I teased that maybe he should sing out his answers. I think he felt he could be himself in 5th hour. I hope so.

Marcus’s disability was in language arts: my class. Students who have this disability in language arts frequently hate English because they have a hard time reading or writing, and English is heavy with those activities. They are often quiet and hold back, maybe afraid they’ll look stupid. And sometimes they’re downright hostile to help. But Marcus was different. He took advantage of his education like a man eating his last meal. He gobbled up help from the speech and language therapist on papers or reading for my class. He worked his heart out, turned in all his homework, and started asking (and answering) more questions in class. In short, he was a quirky but model student. He got a B in English.

Toward the end of the year, the speech therapist told me Marcus confided that English was his favorite class. This is a compliment for any teacher, but from a student for whom English could represent his greatest academic hurdle and pain, this was huge. Tears welled in my eyes.

“It’s fifth hour,” I said, “they are such a wonderful group. I think he feels welcome there.” Marcus was in the right place at the right time.

• • •

And now, inadvertently, when I needed it most, Marcus showed up for me. He was taller still and a junior. “Marcus, how are you? It’s good to see you,” I said. “So, how’s your school year going?”

“I’m taking two English classes this semester.” One of them was Creative Writing, an upper level course and a challenge. “I’m getting an A in both of them,” he said proudly.

“Wow! I’m impressed!” I gushed, thinking how proud I felt for him, and we parted.
A simple conversation. But the moment hit me. The pain and insult of the surly morning class receded.

Marcus reminded me why I am a teacher.

Posted November 10, 2003