A way in

Today we had a faculty meeting at work. It began abruptly with our principal talking frankly about race -- about the fact that it has always been true and it is true at our school and every other school with a population of students of color, that if you go to the in-school suspension room, it will be mostly students of color. More than that (at a school like ours, there are almost no white kids), of all those students, most will be black. He even had some numbers from recent days.

He went on to say that sometimes black kids express themselves differently than we might -- they may tend less to bottle up their feelings, and instead respond quickly and out loud. And then we send them to the principal's office.

He wanted a way to not excuse bad behavior, but maybe for us to make room for understanding and acceptance of different kinds of behavior than we might be used to. He asked some students in an after-school program to share their stories with us. He listened to them first to get an idea of how it would go.

And when he heard how teachers were indicted in their stories, he thought it was too harsh, that we would tune out, and he cancelled it, asking them to maybe re-work the stories in ways that were more accessible to us.

And so he listened again, and he still thought they were too harsh. But when he listened, so did several other adults -- all people of color. And they all disagreed. So he went home and checked his privilege and decided to go ahead with it. We heard their stories today.

And mostly what we heard were things that we know intellectually. We know about substance abuse and physical abuse and sexual abuse and incarceration and gangs and drug dealing and the foster care system and hunger. But we don't often have a 16 year old girl in front of us, her hands shaking and on the verge of tears, telling us that when she got in trouble for being distracted in class, it was because she was wondering why her mother hadn't told her she loved her for thirteen years. Being in foster care is one thing -- we talk to foster parents all the time -- but hearing about why a girl was taken from her mother was different, bleaker. One of the things that surprised me most was how alone these kids were. Several spoke about not knowing their fathers, their mothers dead or disappeared or legally separated from them, but they were also separated from siblings who had moved, been murdered, been taken by their other parent, or were otherwise unavailable. These weren't kids who had no father but still had a loving network. These were kids who were basically alone in the world.

And then they came to school and were asked if they were retarded, if they were illiterate. Told they might as well give up because they'd never make anything of themselves. Told the dream of being a doctor was too far out of reach. I was angry at the thought that some of my colleagues could have said these things.

In the back of my mind, I wondered whether I had said anything like that, or anything that even if meant well, could be interpreted that way. I have certainly pulled a kid aside and asked him to read to me because I wasn't sure he could. I think I did it lovingly and privately, but... how did he feel?

And then a student got up, telling a story in third person with a false name because he wasn't ready yet to reveal that it was his story. "Shawn," he said, "hadn't eaten since yesterday at lunchtime, so he was begging food off his friends and eating it in class. He got sent to the principal's office." I thought of the students I had chastened this week for eating in class. "Shawn went home that night and his dad came home drunk. His dad and mom argued until 2am, so Shawn couldn't sleep. The next day in class, Shawn fell asleep at his desk, so the teacher told him to stand up. He stood up for ten minutes, then asked to sit back down. He fell asleep again, so the teacher sent him to the principal's office." I thought of the kids I constantly wake up.

Don't worry, I don't intend to suddenly let every classroom-inappropriate behavior go, inventing excuses for them or assuming the worst. But I do think I'm going to take a second to think about whether it could be the case. I'm not a hardass anyway. Today a kid came in with a nectarine and said he was hungry, so could he finish it outside real quick? I said yes, of course.

And I'm not a send-kids-to-the-principal kind of teacher anyway. My classroom is mine, and I will deal with the issues that come up if I can. In the last two and a half years, I've probably sent two referrals.

But if I can contribute positively to the atmosphere of my school... If I can make it a safe place to be... If I can not just get them college- and career- ready, but also let them know that I care and believe in them... If I can not make the journey or even an hour worse... That's what I'm in education to do.

One of the first student speakers today said that teachers were often looking for a way out of the situation, but she wanted them to find a way in.  I can't save them all. I can't fix 15 years of prior trauma and neglect and lack of education. But if they're going to land in my class, they're going to find a soft place to land.