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Tuesday, Caden* lied to me. The same day, I nominated him for Student of the Month. “I’m moving to Mauston,” he said, perched on the end of the computer table in the lab. I waited, silent; usually, he gives himself away. He continued instead. “That’s why my mom couldn’t come to parent-teacher conferences last night. We were in Mauston.” “So are you upset about this?” I asked. He shrugged, picking at the laminate. “Are you happy about this?” “No,” he scoffed. “Why?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest. “Girlfriend,” he said, like it was obvious. “Friends.” I waved my fingers in the air, pointing at myself from all directions. “Ms. Ringelspaugh,” he muttered, but then broke into a grin. I had him. Keep in mind that this conversation was after Caden arrived late to class and pretended to beat up Santos three times in the first five minutes; and after Caden walked out of the room, dodged me, and hid in the hall in order to sneak back into class; and after I pulled him, still shouting, from class by his shirt sleeve, to sit in the hall and talk. “No, we’re not moving to Mauston,” he exploded, the force of his words making his head bend forward in a slow motion nod, the grin still present. “Well, I’d miss you,” I said, absolutely sincere about missing the kid that was the focal picture of my September nightmare. I may never get to teach Caden again, if he moves to Mauston or if he stays in our district. I briefly tried to picture Caden in my AP American History/English combo: researching independently, reading classic novels, sitting down just to think and analyze. Whereas previously, I had enjoyed both the variety of challenges and of students, I suddenly wondered if we were doing our best for Caden. I worked so hard to bond and understand, communicate and trust this year, only to have him start over with a different teacher in a different class next year. Caden watched my face as it changed expression and asked, “What’s wrong?” “I just got sad,” I said. “About me?” he asked, surprised. “Yeah,” I nodded. “Ms. R, you’re weird,” he said, and we walked back to class. Caden worked well that day, quietly bent over a library table. However, he left class without permission the next day, and the next day: a full three days in a row. I wrote him up. When he saw the referral, Caden got mad and walked out again. Friday, during class, Caden paced, his back stiff, his elbows locked, and his eyes wide. I thought back to Tuesday. “Caden, come talk to me when you’re ready. I’ll just wait over here.” I walked to the other side of the library, purposely not looking at Caden. Caden took a few more laps, then came and sat down. “Wadda’ want to talk about?” he snarled. “You’re the one that wanted to talk.” But I waited until I got him to make the first move, a concession that, in Caden’s world, again signified huge emotional gains. After he started the conversation, he led the conversation, asking me questions and explaining how he’s feeling lately. I listened as he progressed from ranting about the unfairness of his double lunch detention to the hard life and stress of home. In the middle of all of this, he blurted, “I heard I got student of the month.” “Yes,” I said. “How do you know?” he accused. “I’m the one that nominated you.” He gaped, silent for five full seconds. “Why? You just wrote me up. I walked out three days in a row.” “Well, I filled out the form on Tuesday,” I explained, wryly, meeting his eyes. He grinned, then asked, “Why?” suddenly bashful. Because you’ve improved so much since September.” “What do you mean?” “Remember September Caden? September Caden and I would never have been able to have this talk. He would have been mad at me for three days. He would have been crouched in the corner, curled into a ball, trying not to move. Then, the only move he could have made was to hit someone. Remember him?” Caden looked amazed. “Yeah.” “Think about Tuesday,” I said. “Yeah, you pretended to beat Santos up. You walked out. You lied to me. But we talked about it afterwards. You were polite. And then you came back to class and worked really hard and got a lot done that day.” “Oh.” I waited while things processed in his head. “Who else did you nominate?” he asked. “Elliott,” I said, naming a straight-A student in our class. “Why Elliott?” “Because Elliott is always polite and always smiles, does his best, even if he doesn’t understand the first time. Same as you.” “I’m the same as Elijah?” Caden asked, slowly, like he was having trouble making his mouth form the words, like they were a foreign language. “Yeah,” I assured him. Student of the Month, at my school, has no requirement rubric attached. Sometimes I nominate an AP student for Student of the Month. But not usually. Instead, I nominate the freshman students that need picking out of the crowd. The kids who I am lucky enough to see grow. I know that I may never teach Caden again. At the beginning of next year, a new September Caden will sit in a different teacher’s classroom. But I want both Caden and that teacher to always remember that he can and will grow – can and will succeed – with bonding, understanding, communication and trust. * The names of all students in this column have been changed. Posted May 12, 2008 |
