Break the Bat

I recently watched another team win the World Series and it was not enjoyable. I sat and watched the games, wishing I was wearing my lucky hat and cheering on my guys. My team, the Detroit Tigers, beat the Yankees, but they couldn't get past the hot bats of the Rangers in the American League Championship Series. It's not that the the team that I have held close to my heart since I was a child wasn't trying, their best effort was just not as good or maybe as timely as the eventual Pennant winning Rangers.

There were a couple of times where I questioned the wisdom of the opposing team's manager, the entirely likable Ron Washington. The Rangers had runners in scoring position and they chose to bunt or appeared to just be trying move a runner to the next based with a swap at the ball. I certainly wasn't rooting for them to succeed, but I was surprised to see what my armchair coaching determined to be as a half effort. Of course, the Rangers knew what they were doing and won the series, and their strategy didn't diminish their effort. The situations did get me thinking though.

I talked with our class about the series the next morning. After announcements, the pledge, and the crucially important topic of lunch choices took up valuable instructional time yet again, I started talking about always trying your best. I told them to make the most of opportunities, and never do something worthwhile with less than your best efforts. Then I got on a roll.

We were going to be late to our special period that morning, but I wanted to make sure I got my point across. I work hard to make sure we feel safe in our room. We want an atmosphere free from ridicule, meanness, and physical harm, but also free to voice opinions, freely share ideas, and our laughter. I also want them to take hold of their own path, to be free to express or demonstrate their learning.

Then I told them I wanted them to fail. As my silence helped let that sink in to their 6th grade brains, I softly told them,  "that it was ok to fail." I want them to not be afraid to fail in our room."What's going to happen?", I asked. The outcome may not be what you would've wanted, but you'll learn what you can do better next time. When you fail, you will learn what you can change, add-to, or take away to make better. That's how you'll grow in your learning. "Don't worry about what your grade will be, worry about what you have learned", I said.

Make mistakes. Fail. It's ok. You're safe.

I want my kids to make their best effort in what we do in class. Well, maybe not all of their energy is required in spelling , but don't just try and get by. No half efforts. Don't just advance the runner. Swing the bat as hard as you can and try to break it. The splinters you will create can be used to build something great.

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Always Teaching

Last minute communications had been issued, exit conversations were held, and end of day high fives had been handed out. A hectic, but fulfilling school day had concluded. Because I was still talking to my kids as we made our way downstairs as they began making their way home, I uncharacteristically found myself on the first floor, where I spied our  principal who was monitoring one of the street exits.

She had recently returned to our school after a couple of days away for training or meetings. I made my way over to  sarcastically introduce myself  and genuinely welcome her back. While reaching out to shake her hand, I said, "I remember the face, but I don't quite remember your name."  She replied "Mrs Smith, and you are?" We laughed, shook hands, and I turned around to head back upstairs. Then a bloody murder scream snapped me around to see a little girl led by her mom coming back in through the double doors.

The mom looked frantic. The girl, flushed with pain and confusion, had blood streaming down her face. There was a request for a band-aid, but I met that request with a "come with me." I scooped the little girl up, which was met with an seemingly impossibly louder scream, when the little one couldn't see he mom, who I asked to follow me upstairs to my room.

In the same drawer that I keep confiscated student distractions, various contraband, and my secret stash of candy, is a quick pack of medical care supplies. Rubber gloves, bandages, cotton balls, alcohol wipes, etc, all at the ready for minor elementary wounds. I sat the girl in my desk chair and handed her a couple of the many Spongebob's that adorn my desk in an effort to calm her down. It worked. Of course it worked, everybody loves Spongebob, even when sweat and blood have made your child-fine hair stick to your face.

A little swabbing, a little cleaning, and a fresh new band-aid fixed the little one up. She handed back the yellow toy that decorates a grown man's work space, gave me a little hug, and grabbed mom's hand to leave. I hadn't really noticed through all the chaos that a couple of my students had stayed afterword to help recover our classroom and set-up some morning elements for me. "That was so amazing Mr Johnson!", one of them exclaimed, "You were like a doctor", said the other. Of course it was neither, I was just doing what came naturally. I've seen much worse and I have had a lot of practice with such minor incidents as a father of a thirteen year old boy. I saw a kid that needed help. I helped.

Then the realization that even though the school day may be done, I'm always teaching. My helpful students made the connection to some of the lessons on community that we've had this year. "You showed that little girl such compassion" the students observed, saying further "just like our community circle on compassion."

As a teacher, you don't know if you reach the kids with your words. That day, I was sure that I taught my kids through my actions. I'm always teaching.

 
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