*Reflections on Teaching* Year 7

“Giving Up”
Reflections on Year 7

“Write it down,” the assistant principal told me. “Write down every single thing you’ve tried with her, then give me a copy." So, I sat down to type.
I let my mind wander back to that honeymoon period, the first two weeks of the school year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thump, thump, thump, thump. It seemed innocent at first, like it was a nervous habit and she couldn’t help it. It drilled itself into our subconscious, hammering at our sanity.
Thump, thump, thump. “So our next step is to bring down….” Thump, thump, thump. “…to bring down….” Thump, thump, thump. “…what was I saying?” Glassy eyes stared back at me. Miserable. This was miserable. I walked back to her desk. “Please stop stomping. No one can think or concentrate. Please stop.” Thump, thump, thump. It was unbelievable that I would be begging a student to stop a behavior. She’d already been kept in from recess, sent to the office, and removed to the hallway. I’d put pillows and exercise mats under her desk, only to have them viciously kicked across the room. And still, every single day, every single hour, every single minute: thump, thump, thump.

While sharing my frustration in the staff lounge one day, a voice piped up from a nearby table.
“I know exactly who you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“Yup. The boy I shadow was in her home room last year. The stomping made everyone crazy. I finally took her shoes.”
“Off her feet?”
“Yup. I only had to do it once, and she never stomped for me again.”

Well, now, there was an idea! Take the shoes once and be done with it. This was new territory for me, though. I’d never forcibly removed clothing from a student, or from anyone, for that matter. I waited until the next day, after a quick phone call to keep the parents informed.
It started soon after the first bell. Thump, thump, thump. I gave her one last chance. “Please stop stomping,” I murmured with my hand on her chair, knowing she wouldn’t but hoping she would. Sixty seconds of thump, thump, thumping later I took a deep breath. I was so nervous my hands were trembling. I moved her chair away from her desk, knelt beside her, and began unlacing shoes from her uncooperative feet which lashed out soundlessly. I wrestled the shoes off and returned, shaking, to my own desk.

Unfortunately, this first time wasn’t the last time. I learned to wedge both her legs between my own legs and the desk and use one elbow to keep the knees down while I unlaced and pulled. After a seemingly endless couple of weeks, the thumps ceased.

For about a day, lovely silence reigned in our classroom. And then, “Shhhhhhhh. Shh. Shh. Shhhhhh.” At first, we were so relieved to have the stomping over with that the shushing was a welcome replacement. Yet as the weeks wore on, so did our patience. After the second month of shushing, I looked at the eyes of my twenty-five other children and knew, I had to do something else for the rest of my kids.

So she began her days living in the office. Given a fresh chance each morning, the choice was always hers. Our days fell into a pattern.
“Shhhhhh. Shh, shh, shhhhhhh.”
“Please stop shushing.”
“SH! Shhhhhhhhh. Sh. Shhhhhhh,” she’d continue.
I’d ask her to join me in the hallway, where she’d be given the choice to stop or go to the office. Her response? “Shhhhhhhhhh.” Lucky for me when it came to physically moving, I knew her kryptonite: she hated to be touched. “Well,” I’d sigh, “if you need some help moving, I can help you.” Her response? “Shhhhhhh.” So I’d tell my partner teacher where I was going, place my hand on one of the shushing girl’s shoulders, and begin to move her toward the office.

At times like these, she’d suddenly find words. “Stupid, get your hands off me!” or “What’s wrong with you, I said don’t touch me!” or "Pervert!" Words all the way down the hallway; words combined with pushing, shoving, scratching, and twisting. I’d leave her there, again, feeling like a failure, again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sat staring at the computer screen, remembering. After typing two pages of all I’d tried with her, I realized I hadn’t really given up on her at all. One failed attempt after another, I had fought for this child. The fact that this school wasn’t the best place for her didn’t mean I’d given up, just that my efforts were directed at getting her the help she needed, help I couldn’t give her.