Letter to Student
Dear Carlton (link)
Dear Carlton,
You never actually admitted to me that you could not read, but I figured it out pretty quickly. Yes, I was told that you could be angry and defiant. I was told that you needed, “a lot of help.” You came to me equipped with an IEP that spoke about your range of difficulties with reading and writing, as well as your behavior tendencies. But, in all those pages, I never saw anything personal about you. All those words and phrases were the typical EDUSPEAK. Needs and goals, promising interventions and outcomes.
I admit that I was nervous, even though I wasn’t a new teacher. Your behaviors were well known even if you weren’t. By third grade, you had already been to several schools in the area. No one seemed to know you, or like you for that matter. You were just another kid that we had to deal with, “hopefully, he won’t stay long,” was the message I was given.
There you sat in my third grade classroom, wild eyed and unkempt. Not a single school supply, or friend. You scared everybody. I called the group to the back carpet, and I started my first read aloud from my favorite author. You sat on the outskirts , just off the carpet, I let you stay there . By the second page, you were on your knees, eagerly anticipating the next. Carlton, you were enraptured by the book, the story, the details of Thundercake. As I asked the group questions, you waited until I called your name and then, like a wise, old man, you explained the foreshadowing, the nuances, and deeper meaning of the story. The other children were dumbfounded, thinking you must be clearly off base- their young minds weren’t quite on your level yet. But they were wrong. You had such clear, thought-provoking insight, depth of understanding, and a spirit of delight for the simple story of a childhood memory. On that very first day, I knew something about you that no transcript could tell me. I had the idea that you might be brilliant.
Those encounters with read alounds continued. Every time, you had some magical insight to the characters or the theme. But I also watched you with independent reading. Your favorite book was a huge, hard covered book about science and inventions. And even though you could not read it, as I noted in my conferences with you, you would look at the accompanying pictures and figure out somehow, an appoximationof what the pages were about. It was amazing. Carlton, even though you carried that big book like a security blanket, the others were not fooled by you. You never cared for story books. You were smart enough to know that there wasn’t a way for you to unlock their secrets, so you stuck with the nonfiction books so that maybe, with enough picture support, you would actually learn something that was useful. I think that you took care of your eight year old self on your own, and this knowledge could be useful.
Your behavior was only occasionally a problem for me, usually, we could work it out. You were eager for my attention, and enjoyed sharing information with me. I asked how you knew so much, and you said that you watched the History channel on tv. That was your favorite, and you literally absorbed the verbal communication. But the inability to read led you down the wrong path in every other subject. Your frustration led you to this defiant behavior. I went to my principal, and I told her, “Carlton is brilliant, he just needs to learn how to read!” She was incredulous, but she believed me. Then, she came in and watched you in my class and saw it for herself. We held a meeting with your mother. Her first words to us were, “That kid is dumber than a stick, you know he still can’t read!”
I felt the tears rush to my eyes, how could a mother say this about her child? My principal stepped in and told her that we actually thought that you were intelligent, but yes, you did need to learn how to read and write. Carlton, your mom was wrong, but she shook her head and said, “good luck, that boy is dumb.” I will never forget that meeting, and it put a fight inside me to prove her wrong.
Unfortunately, Carlton, I was not strong enough or smart enough to win this fight. You see, since you had an IEP and AIS intervention, I let you go, and let others fight that battle to teach you how to read and write. I had twenty other kids in my class, right? The other teachers had you in small groups, or one on one, they should be able to teach you the basics with them, and not embarrass you amongst your peers. My role would be to keep your secret, keep my connection with you, and let the other students know how brilliant you were.
Your behaviors continued outside of my classroom. They occurred in Special area classes, or when you had a substitute teacher. One day when I was out, you threatened the substitute and your classmates with a sharp object. The substitute gathered the children behind her protecting them, and called for help, but she was terrified by you. She never again stepped foot into our school after that day. Of course, these behaviors led to consequences, suspensions, and less time inside the classroom, and fewer people who wanted to help you.
So, Carlton, I am writing this letter to apologize for my teaching. I wanted to keep your secret, so I worked with you on comprehension, and scribing for you (no technology when this happened). I should not have trusted others to do my work, work that I believed in and wanted for you. I believe now that I should have done the work to teach you how to read and write. I could have done so much more for you. I had your engagement, you had vocabulary and comprehension. I knew that you needed the decoding, fluency, and spelling. I dropped the ball by letting you go somewhere else to get these skills. I knew how to teach these skills, but I didn’t teach you. I was negligent. I was the one who maybe could have been successful teaching you these skills because you trusted me, and I believed in you and your brilliant mind. I let you go, forsaking you for the other twenty students in my class.
If you remember me at all, Carlton, you will remember how your defiance finally reached my classroom with me teaching. It was in early June, and I had to have you removed from my classroom. On the way out, you struck me in the back with your pencil. After a Superintendent’s hearing, you were not allowed back in school for the remainder of the year. At the time, I was troubled my the decision. Even though I felt betrayed by you, my adult mind knew that I had betrayed you. You trusted me, I believed in you, but by June, I had still not taught you how to read. I was just like “the others” who had been charged with teaching you. I failed you, and your frustration couldn’t be overcome.
I have never seen you again (you moved away), but also have never forgotten you, Carlton, even though this all happened almost fifteen years ago. You taught me that I can employ strategies that meet you where you are when you are in my classroom. I would find the time and place to help you learn the basics of phonemic awareness, phonics, sight words and challenge you to use your great mind to figure out a way to make the letters and sounds make sense to you. I thought that you were a sight reader, and I would have worked with you to find this out or go back to the phonics if you learned that way. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
Calton, you will always have a place in my heart. I will never forget you. I know I can’t have a do-over with you, and while it almost broke my spirit, I have learned to do better because of you. I am writing this to you to let you know that in the short amount of time that I knew you, you left an indelible mark on my career. I did read about you recently. Even though it was a minor infraction, it was in the Police Blotter. It broke my heart. When you know better, do better. Let’s go from there, Carlton. I promise to do better for all of my students.
Love,
Mrs. Rufa