“What is it?” I asked the dean of students who presented it to me.

“It’s hard to explain, but your name came up when we were thinking of who we wanted to invite. It was on Oprah. Did you see that episode?”

“I’m not an Oprah watcher.” I admitted. I didn’t get into all that.

“Well, it’s a nationally recognized program where it’s one day when these two trainers come in and train the adults for 30 minutes before the kids show up. It’s got a lot of activities and it’s meant to help deal with the problems and issues kids have. There is tons of energy and group talking time and we’ve been told to provide all the tissues. Look it up online if you want. You’ll find more information there.”

At this point I was mildly scared but also intrigued. How would these kids, strangers to me and I to them, bond over the course of a day and come to trust me enough to tell me their deepest kept secrets? What could this possibly entail?

I’m glad I wore yoga pants and my running shoes that day. I needed them for all the wild, frenzied physical activities. Dancing, playing volleyball, and basically running around to introduce myself to 100 7th graders who thought that all the adults there had consumed a case of energy drinks that morning in order to be this excited. It wasn’t our fault. The group leader who trained us told the group that whenever they mentioned the phrase, “We’re getting ready to play another game!” we were to act as if we won the lottery or found out that we were going to be the special guest on Oprah or as if we were on the tv show “Extreme Makeover” and we had to show the same excitement those families show when they announce for them to Move. That. Truck. We all did it willingly. Jumping, screaming, clapping. Honestly, we looked like crazed lunatics and wouldn’t you know? It worked. They teach us that in order to get really deep with their feelings we first have to take them really high with our energy.

I regret, however, that I wore mascara that day. Because the tears from everyone flowed and dribbled like a raging river that seemed to have an endless supply of rushing water. It was my own fault, though. I mean, they told us that they’d provide the tissues. I should have known that the waterworks of tears would surge forth.

We’re not supposed to talk about what was discussed that day because it is intensely private and we can’t break confidentiality. The kids in my small group opened up immediately during their concentrated 2-minute talk time. No one in the group is supposed to spend that time speaking except the one who has the floor. There was to be no validation of their feelings, no fixing of their problems, and no interrupting. We all held to that rule. Only one girl spent the entire 2 minutes in tears. She never spoke about what it was she could have shared with us and the other adult leader and I simply offered her tissues and knee pats and it’s okays when we could. There were four kids in my group. Matt, the only boy, was incredibly forthcoming during his 2 minutes. He was such a spaz during the earlier activities that it surprised me as to how sensitive and vulnerable he became.

The games were frenetic and intense. We played a game of volleyball with an enormous blow up ball and the kids, split into two teams, had to stay seated the entire game. Adults lined up around the outside and pushed the ball back into play. We got points for catching the ball and holding onto to it if it came to us and that was hard because the ball was incredibly huge. There was a halftime show where the adult teams had to create a “show” to earn points. Since we only had 30 seconds to come up with it we decided to do the Stanky Leg while they played the song for us and it had been a long time since I made a complete fool of myself in front of strangers, but the kids seemed to love it. They laughed at us and snapped their fingers to the beat and even tried to do the Stanky Leg while they were seated. Let me pause here to say that it looked very much like having a seizure while sitting cross-legged on the floor. None of it, truly, was very pretty to watch. Funny, yes. Pretty, no.

Toward the end of the day we did an activity (a game, and yes, we screamed and clapped and jumped up to express our enthusiasm) that was, apparently, something they did in the movie version of the book “Freedom Writers”. The speaker puts a long piece of tape down the middle of the gym floor (have I mentioned that this took place in a hot, stifling, sweaty, stinky gymnasium?) and reads a series of statements. I believe that it is simply called the Line Game. The statements began benignly enough and became more intense as trust amongst the group members increases. By this time of the day, however, there was an incredible amount of faith in the group.

There is no talking during this ‘game’. No laughing and no joking. If the statement that’s read applies to you, then you simply move to the other side and face everyone who hasn’t moved along with you. In order to provide support we were instructed to show love to those who moved to the other side of the line. Whether it was a smile or a nod or even the sign language for “I love you”, we were to just support. When you’re on the non-moving side and you stay where you are because the proclamations don’t apply to you, then you hold up the “I love you” sign. It says it all. I’m here for you. I see you. I got you. I love you.

It shocked me to see some kids and adults moving across the line. Some of the adults I know as colleagues and I had no idea about the things in their lives that set them to become a moving member of “Challenge Day” and cross the line.

Cross the line if you’ve ever experienced the death of a close family member.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been scared in your neighborhood or even in your home.

Cross the line if you’ve ever heard gunshots.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been homeless.

Cross the line if you’ve ever been bullied. Or even if you have bullied someone else.

Cross the line if you’ve ever experienced abuse.

Cross the line if you’ve ever lived with violence.

Constant movement is going on during this ‘game’. Some people go back and forth multiple times and there were moments when my brain registered the thought, “Safety in numbers” as I watched the bravery and vulnerability of these people. Not just these kids. Or these adults. But, these people. There were tears and sometimes when people moved to the other side a friend would put their arm around them or hold their hand. And, of course, there were signs of “I love you” coming across from the other side. What we all learned was that we have more in common that we thought. You have to reveal some things about yourself in order to see that standing next to you is a person you may have bullied or teased or ignored or been mean to for no good reason. You have to admit your experiences and step out there. Everyone might know, when you do that, that you have shameful episodes in your life and that you have encountered pain and suffering. It is a woefully absent practice in empathy and it’s powerful.

Like everyone else, I moved back and forth across the line. There were times when I didn’t move and stood in my place holding up the “I love you” sign to the kids and adults standing across from me.

There was only one statement for which I was the only person who didn’t move. Everyone else moved over the line and stood there facing me, but I couldn’t lie or fake it, nor would I choose to do so. It surprised me somewhat that I stayed there and it’s not as if there is a lot of time to think deeply about my choices for staying right where I was. Two of the adult friends I knew there, Jenni and Sara, were really the only people who knew why I didn’t move. They both cried while looking directly at me just like I did when I previously saw them on the other side. Do you know that look people give you when they are sorry for what you’re going through? They gave me that look. Even Matt, the young boy who met me mere hours before, saw me standing there alone. He wasn’t directly across from me, but he moved to get there and pushed his way to the front so I could see him. When he arrived he firmly planted his feet and forcefully held his hand up in the air.

“I love you,” he said. Jenni and Sara said it, too. Many other people, mostly strangers, said it as well. They said it with a sign and didn’t speak it out loud at all.

Cross the line if you ever got to have a childhood and be a kid.

I couldn’t move from my spot and I couldn’t cross that line. It wasn’t true for me. I’ve been responsible for so long that I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have burdens and liabilities and functions to perform. Someone else always comes first. Things need to be taken care of. I’ve never known a time when there wasn’t something to do. The I’ll take care of it gene is entirely too strong in me. Be the adult and do the right thing permeate my fibers. And it annoys the shit out of me. Nothing can be done to undo it, either.

But it was healing, even if it was just a little bit, to admit it to them. And it’s a little bit more healing to write it here and share it with you.

When I visit a classroom it’s kind of old hat and no one tends to look up to see who has just walked in to observe. Last month I started keeping scraps of paper in a journal about each visit so I could remember what was going on. Most times, I leave a note for a teacher to offer my insights into what learning was happening or what good teaching I witnessed. Other times I just tell them in person about my time in their classroom.

In the month of March I found that my scraps of paper were adding up and started organizing them along with notes I’ve received from students over the years. I’ve been lucky enough, as an educator, to get them at all sorts of odd times. Once, after a student and I clashed over her behavior and I became increasingly frustrated with her I yelled, “You know, it’s hard to talk to you sometimes because I know you know better and you keep making stupid decisions about things!” and that, unfortunately, hurt her feelings. I apologized moments later, but she had already escalated into anger and suddenly she was spewing obscenities and stormed out. I never expected to receive a letter of apology later and that note, along with countless others, have made their way into my collection.

Sometimes, when I go into a classroom, I take some paper with me and try to just casually note behaviors of the students because there are so many things I get to see that I don’t want to miss. Other times, teachers just hand me the same assignment that students are working on so that I can do them, too. I’ve never missed an opportunity to do a writing assignment as I know the power in adults sharing their writing and being metacognitive about their process. Just like the last two years that I’ve done this, one teacher in particular invites me to her room to tell students why I love chapter 11 from To Kill a Mockingbird and the students, unlike when I was teaching them, were at rapt attention. Visitors in classrooms should always ALWAYS share their thoughts and invite students to share them as well because that right there is a golden opportunity.

Here are some of the notes I’ve written recently. Sometimes, I just write dialogue that I have with students.

A note I wrote. In a math classroom:

Samantha has twice forgotten how to do the number line. Suzette and Jasmine are kicking ass. She’s quiet, but Alanna asks questions as necessary. Samantha, unfortunately, wants everyone to know why she’s behind. She’s been suspended for three days. I ask her what is so hard about this lesson. She responds, “It’s the words. It’s not the math so much on this problem, it’s the definitions. It’s not a lot of math, but a lot of definitions.” Samantha does keep asking questions, though. After the lesson, the teacher says, “I don’t know about you guys but I’m not feeling good about this.” Almost in unison, several students reply, “Neither are we.” He decides to review it again and not go on to the next problem. THIS IS EXCELLENT TEACHING.

Outside an English classroom:

Deangelo: Can I talk to you for a minute before we go in? And when we’re done, will you please call attendance so they don’t be trippin’?

Me: How will it sound if I say it like that?

Deangelo: I dunno.

Me (pretending to talk on a phone): Ok. Hang on. I’ll do it. ‘Hi, attendance office? I need to make sure Deangelo isn’t marked absent this hour. He’ll be with me and his teacher may mark him absent before we get in there. He wanted me to tell you so that you don’t be trippin’.’ See how that sounded, Deangelo?

Deangelo: Yeah.

Me: And? How did it sound?

Deangelo: It sounded goooooood.

In a science classroom where I’d been sitting in the back of the room all hour at a student desk:

Heather (a student): I didn’t even see you! What are you doing here?

Me: Being a ninja. I thought I was invisible.

In an English classroom:

Chase: Are you in here all hour?

Me: Yes. (Pause) I’m evaluating.

Chase: Are we doing good?

Me. I’m not evaluating you. If I were, though, you’d be doing well. (I overemphasize the word well.)

Chase: Is she doing well?

Me: Yes, she is. I see a lot of differentiating of instruction, there’s student engagement, and there’s a plan for your learning.

CRICKETS. Chase stares blankly at me.

Me: Basically, she’s doing a lot of things to make sure that all students are learning. But here’s the thing. YOU know when teachers are doing well. Don’t you?

Chase: Of course I do! I sit in classrooms all day long.

Me (smiling at him, knowingly) : I know. I thought you’d have an opinion.

Chase: Then why don’t y’all listen to us when we tell you that we have a bad teacher? Some teachers suck.

I just take a deep breath because I can’t answer this succinctly and Chase, like most students, has no idea the number of people working in a school who are trying to extract excellent teaching. Recently, when I asked parents what the words “parent involvement” meant to them I was astounded at the different experiences people had with either their own schooling as a child as well as the ones in which parents wanted to share their background with their children’s teachers. A great number of readers asked me what I, as a teacher, would want from parents. When I reflect on that I take myself right back to the classroom. I wanted parents to be interested in their kids, I wanted them to ask me for help in studying with their child, I wanted parents to hear my side of the story as a teacher when their kids complained about something I assigned or said or did.

As a seasoned educator, though, I’ve grown weary of hearing that parents don’t care about their children. That just isn’t true. As much as I try to listen to kids, I try to listen to adults and the adults I want most to hear from are parents. Sometimes, they don’t come across as supportive or engaging, but they care. For two years in a row my student Daniel had an angry mom. She yelled at me all the time. All. the time. She threatened me, lied to me, and make excuses for her son. (Her threats were always ridiculous, too. She said that her mom, Daniel’s grandmother, was going to “come up there and whoop your ass” and honestly, I couldn’t help but laugh at this.) (I also kept giving her directions to my office. Shocker! No one ever showed up to beat the crap out of me.) She didn’t love her son any less than any other parent and she wanted to protect him from the horrible encounters that she had as a student.

So, yes. Even the Daniel’s Mommas of the world are invited into education. They make it harder and I get sick of their antics, but they don’t know how to act in a school setting. Hell, they probably act even WORSE when out in the general public. They still care, though, just not in the way we would like. I would like to keep working with them and teaching them how they can help their child at home.

I will keep writing down my observations with them, too.

First thing in the morning my secretary called me on the radio to tell me that I had a visitor. This could be anybody. Former students, current students, teachers in other buildings who are visiting and wanted to drop by to say hello. It was Janelle. Janelle graduated early this year so I never get to see her (or her growing belly) (which has completely shrunk, that little stinker). She brought her month old daughter and wanted to show me that she had all ten fingers and all ten toes. Of course, I said, “You know I’m going to hold her, right? And smell her? And kiss her? And then I’ll steal her.” She laughed and looked at me sideways. I’m always joking with her. She never takes me seriously but man, did I want to put that sweet baby in my purse and take her home.

While Janelle was there, Dakota walked in. He’s been gone from high school for almost two years now and when he left he was carrying around an extra 60 pounds, but he went into a military program, shaped up, got a job, and also has a new baby. When he left us he was a mess. He’s getting it all together now. He knows I’m proud of him so he keeps coming back for reinforcement. I’ll give it freely.

As I’m walking out of the office after visiting with them both I see Annie. She’s been my office assistant in the past and I never get to see her anymore. “What are you doing in here?” I ask. She tells me that she got kicked out of class for no reason. It’s always NO REASON to hear the students tell it. “There’s more to that story,” I say. “No, there’s not. She kicked me out for saying ‘crap’ so here I am.” This doesn’t sound like it’s going to end well and I can see that I will probably work for at least 20 minutes to get the full story out of her. “Come on, Annie. Just saying ‘crap’ doesn’t get you kicked out of class.”

I put my hands on my hips, look at my watch to indicate that I don’t have time for all this, and she caves.

“All I said was that this class was crap and she told me not to say that word and I’m like, what! It’s not a bad word! And she’s all, oh yeah it is, and I’m like fine, then crap crap crap crap crap.”

I turned on my heel and walked out of the office, sighing loudly to voice my displeasure at her silliness.

In the hallway, Drew stops me to ask if we can have a Jedi Day at school. “What for? What’s the purpose?” Drew tells me there’s no reason. He just likes Jedis. Drew is the best kind of student. He’s funny and always joking. I can’t imagine where he’s going with this. He says he wants to use Jedi moves on the teachers, too. “This is not the grade you’ll give me,” he joked. “See how awesome this could be? LET’S DO IT.”

I turn on my heels again and keep walking down the hallway, but I’m chuckling at him.

By lunchtime, I’ve written four letters of recommendations, visited six classrooms, dropped off an evaluation to a teacher, and loaned money to a student. I’ve also been roped into buying raffle tickets for some sporting events and one chicken dinner. This is why I’m always broke. While I’m in the lunchroom, I see a girl that I’d noticed earlier in the day and I wanted to tell her how much I liked her outfit. She has on green earrings. As I’m wandering around the cafeteria monitoring students I see her and saunter over to her lunch table. Her friends see me approach and get that nervous AN ADULT IS COMING THIS WAY look so I quicken my step and see that she’s texting on her cell phone (a no-no) so I smile wickedly and say, “Well, I was going to come over here and give you a compliment, but not now. Nu uhhh. Nooooo way.”

“Nooooooooooo. Please? Give me the compliment. What were you going to say? Please?”

“I was GOING to say that you’re just the perfect student and you do everything right, but not now.”

“Come ON. Tell me tell me tell me.”

I determine that she needs a compliment. I give it to her. Then she tells me she won’t be on her phone ever again. I ask what grades she’s getting in class. She says, “Oh, you must already know about that C- I’m getting in Chemistry. I’m working on it. I promise. It’ll be a B before the end of this quarter.”

After lunch I watch the coordinator of a Teen Parenting group walking upstairs with three girls. One of them, Elyse, has come to my attention recently because she’s normally a hall wanderer but I have taken an interest in her now that I notice her growing belly. Her records state that she’s missed upwards of 50 days of school this year but she’s managed to pass 4 out of her 7 classes. How does that happen? I shake my head at trying to come up with an answer to it.

Elyse and I connected last week when I casually asked her why she’s still here in high school because she doesn’t appear to want to be in school. Most of the time the profile for students like her (not the pregnant ones, just the apathetic ones) end up in an alternative program. Defiantly, she tells me that she is NOT an alternative kid.

“I don’t need to be frisked every morning before school. I just can’t seem to want to get to class.”

It broke my heart when she said that, so I confided in her that I was really pulling for her and would do what I could to get her the help she needed. There’s no way she can trust me enough yet, but the interest is there. The seed is planted. I’ll water it when I can.

Elyse and two other girls (the other girls are already parents, but are no longer pregnant) need to get passes back to class and since I’m heading in the direction of my office I offer to take them, get their passes, and send them on their merry ways. As I’m writing passes for them I say, “Boy, I wish I had this kind of program in high school where I was encouraged and taught to be a mom. Know what my counselor said to me?”

“What?” they all ask in unison.

“She told me I should probably go to cosmetology school since I made a “mistake” and would need to get a job and wouldn’t amount to anything.”

They all gasp. One of them pouted and cocked her head to the side. “Awwww,” she says. “That wasn’t nice.”

“I know. It’s ok. Guess how old my Mistake is now?”

“How old?” they all ask loudly. By this time, they’re excited by this conversation. I’ve got them hooked. They want to know how it all turns out, like watching the beginning part of a movie and wondering what the end brought.

“23, almost 24. And guess what else? I went to college WITH my kid and then when she grew up she went to college. Don’t lose sight of what you want, ladies. You can have it, but you have to work for it.”

I’m finishing up the passes that I’m writing for them and they’re desperately searching all the photos on my desk and the degrees and certificates I have plastered on the walls. That’s purposeful because students think that we’re all just magically here at work in education as if we didn’t do anything to get here. Whenever I’ve mentioned teaching English in the past they exclaim, “You used to TEACH?”

All my time could be spent talking to students and checking in with them and being there for them on an intermittent basis. It’s not all I do, but these stories can’t really be told by anyone who isn’t here to connect with them. These things don’t exhaust me all the time and I was, in fact, energized by my interactions with students. They might come back someday and bring their babies to me and show me their degrees and tell me what kinds of things they’re doing. They might go off and I’ll never see them again. There’s a lot of uncertainty in the waiting and a lot of hope, too. I don’t know the answers to what they’re dealing with now nor will I be able to fix anything. It is what it is and in the meantime, we all work, never knowing the outcome.

Crap crap crap crap crap.

Stories of my students could fill a book. These are some of my favorites, even if I’d had disappointing dealings with them:

Donnie is a bear of a student. Huge. He’s overweight by about 100 pounds. In the years I’ve known him he’s overturned a table in a classroom and punched an office wall. He’s a chronic class avoider and has the perfect plan for getting out of class. First, he refuses to bring materials for class which is the easiest way to avoid work. Then, he likes to use language that gets him kicked out of class. Finally, he’ll just resort to scary behavior that makes people want him to be far away so that they can actually teach. Several times I’ve just been so incredibly upset with him that I’ve said, “You’re exasperating, you know that? You make me work TOO hard sometimes. IT’S LIKE YOU WANT TO GIVE ME GRAY HAIR.” Donnie’s mom is the most sweet-voiced tiny woman I’ve ever met. When I talk to her on the phone I always have to remember that she’s my biggest ally in dealing with him, but I also am reminded that she’s lived a tough life on the streets as is evidenced by the visible tattoos I’ve read on her skin. She can calm him down in a magical way. Even now I can’t see what contribution he will make as a citizen of the world and it’s not for lack of trying on the part of many many teachers. He does a strange thing. Perhaps it’s mostly strange because of what I know about his brusque nature. He hugs me. He hugs me completely out of the blue. I never know what to make of it but I always walk away shaking my head and fighting off tears and the growth of new gray hairs.

Cole has Asperger’s syndrome. There is a special place in my heart for kids with Asperger’s and I think I was blessed with an extra measure of patience for talking to those kids. Cole does this thing that’s kind of funny: when he walks around school he stops occasionally to sniff a wall. It’s bizarre, but the nice thing is that he is protected by the other students. Once, when I was supervising a roomful of kids there was a new student in there who didn’t know Cole or his eccentricities. A girl, normally rough and tough, yelled at this new kid when he started walking around behind Cole mimicking Cole’s behavior. “Hey, don’t fuck with Cole!” There was really nothing else to do but pretend I didn’t hear her use bad language in front of me. Luckily, it was noisy enough that I could get away with that. Those were the protective thoughts I was having anyway, even if it was unprofessional of me to think them. But the mother in me wanted to reach out to that other kid and say the same thing. There’s just something about kids like Cole that bring out the best in people even if it doesn’t look like the prettiest, shiniest, kindest part of humanity.

Boyd can’t read. It’s as simple as that. I’ve only taught in middle or high schools my entire career with a few short stints as an intern in elementary schools so it’s with much trepidation that I blame his Kindergarten through fifth grade teachers for not teaching him to recognize letters and put together blends. Of course it’s not their fault. But there are at least six teachers who had the opportunity to do just that: teach him to read. There’s much research to support the theory that three bad teachers in a consecutive row can leave a child in educational ruins and Boyd appears to have lived that in practice. He comes without materials so teachers offer them to him. Then, he asks to go to the office or wonders if he shouldn’t be in the in-house suspension room because he can’t do the work. That part is simple. He can’t do it. He can’t even articulate well that the can’t. He grunts and giggles at the most inappropriate times. Laughter isn’t always called for, so I can only assume that Boyd is nervous and uncomfortable with being asked the most basic of questions. He can’t answer these questions: What do you want to do after you get out of school? What kind of job do you hope to have? Boyd believes he’ll just live at home and he’s not getting a sense of urgency from his family to do something. But, by God, the state tests will judge us based on whether or not he can read. His sense of apathy is astounding. Most days I want to take him home with me and other times I want to pull out my own hair when I learn that the expectations for him set by whomever (I dare not blame this entirely on his family. I know better than that.) have been low for a long time. Goals mean nothing to him. My words are empty when he hears them.

Stacy can’t understand why I stay on her case. If you asked her, she would say that I have nothing better to do than pick on her. She’s relatively quiet, keeps to herself and her small group of friends, and doesn’t feel like working any harder than she currently is. When she passes me in the hallway she has different reactions to me. Sometimes, it’s disgust. Others, it’s a playful nature. Truthfully, Stacy can’t figure out why I care so much. I’m not one to put students on blast, but I’ve been known to raise my voice enough to warrant a WARNING! WARNING! THE CONTENTS IN THIS HEAD MAY EXPLODE AT ANY TIME. PLEASE STAND BACK. She found this out the hard way and once we got settled and our voices reached a level where we could converse, all was well. I have that girl in the palm of my hand now. I can’t believe I got it that way. Normally, I pour on way more sugar than is required.

Dawn has been a gem to watch grow. Not only does she try hard and do well in her classes, she’s in extracurriculars like band and cheerleading and student government. Each time I come in contact with her, it’s nice. Just nice. She’s got the warm greetings down to a science. Her cheery smile can light up the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. A few times a semester she comes to check on her class rank (even though she knows by now, after my many talks with her, that it only changes at the end of each semester) and pours over her grades with me. “Oh, I knew I should have studied harder for that test! I could have gotten a higher percentage.” I don’t have to do any prodding with Dawn to get her to be a better student. But giving her attention feels good. I won’t lie – there’s an incredibly fulfilling sense of giving Dawn just the tiniest bit of my time. She makes it last until the next time. It’s what I thought all my relationships would be like with students. Dawn is a model student for anyone, but I feel lucky to get to reach out to her in a small way. I remember, when I’m with her, why I spent four years in undergrad.