... and, I'm back. After 5 weeks of practice-teaching in what one man in my department fondly called "The Asshole of the Toronto District School Board" (pardon his french) - I'm done and attending school as a student tomorrow morning for the first time since the beginning of October.
In some ways, the experience was as rough as it probably sounds. On any given day, 30-50% of the students wouldn't show up for class (some mornings I would be teaching 4-5 students in a class of 20). Kids came to class stoned after smoking up at lunch. One boy wore the same dirty shirt and jeans to school every day. Some would answer their cell phones during class and carry on a continued conversation in the middle of my lesson. Garbage cans were kicked over by students who got bad grades on their test. My energetic lesson plans were met with indifferent stares from students who had no real motivation to care about their own education. Assigned homework was completed by less than 10% of students. I stopped assigning homework. Group work was impossible - who was going to show up the next day? Fun activities and class competitions were impossible due to attendance issues. When a great field trip was planned, not a single student bothered to return the consent form and the trip had to be cancelled.
But there were these moments where I felt like I was doing something extraordinary. A class discussion about remembrance day in a grade 10 ESL course provided a lot of food for thought. I walked out feeling lifted by the interest and contributions of my kids. Sometimes students would stop me in the hallway to give me a high five, or ask me if I had seen the latest movie on the weekend. Once in a while, I would get a smile, a laugh or even a semblance of understanding. Those were amazing moments.
Out of everything that I saw and experienced, there is one kid who is going to stick with me. One interaction that I think really made a difference. He was from eastern Africa and sat in the back corner of an ESL class that I observed. When he showed up for school (which was rarely) he would pull his hood over his head, plug his headphones in and draw in his sketchbook, completely ignoring the lesson, the homework, the tests and the assignments. I walked over to him one day and sat down in the closest desk. "Can I see your drawings?" I asked. He looked at me. "I'm not going to take them away" I added. He handed me his sketch book and as I flipped through it, I realized that this kid was a bona fide artist. Like, his stuff was amazing. I told him so. He smiled.
Over the next 4 weeks, I would spend time every class with him, looking at his art work and listening to his stories about his drawings. I found out that his little brother had died and that most of the drawings originated from the grief and confusion and fear that this student felt. I never really pushed him to stay on task in class (which was more the teacher's job, since I was only observing). I just looked at his art. He started showing up regularly.
On my last day, I asked him if he wanted to sign the large card that a bunch of the students had made for me. He shook his head. "I don't write" he said. I asked him if he would draw something for me - his favorite thing to draw. He nodded. He spent the entire class planning his drawing and sketching it roughly onto the card. When the bell rang, he asked me if he could please stay after school to finish it. I agreed. He spent almost an hour after school carefully penning in his sketch while I read and marked papers. I finally told him that it was time to leave. He gave me the half finished card, looked me in the eye and said "thank you" and walked out the door.
I will probably never see him again but I will never forget looking into his eyes like that. Some nights I came home from teaching ready to quit the profession before I even started it. That moment has convinced me that I'm doing the right thing. And any teacher out there who has ever had a "break through" will know exactly what I'm talking about.
