Gradlife

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‘Tis that time of year again, when myself and my program goes out on practicum and stops being a student and starts being a teacher.

The morning after Halloween in an elementary classroom is always a teacher’s test of patience, as children suffer the combination of lack of sleep and the manic bounce of sugar highs and lows. This year was no different as I began the morning with an investigative lesson on capacity (yay math!) that would be done in partners. Taking the time and thought to arrange partners in a way that was fun (no numbering off 1,2), partners dispersed around the class in a manageably hectic fashion.

Or almost. While answering one students’ questions, I overheard some harsh words take place between two students. Ben and Jenn were partners and Ben refused to sit at Jenn’s desk (despite his table being filled with other students, and space being scarce). Jenn had no interest in being crammed into a table that had already been conquered by so many other groups, and thus she pleaded desperately, “come to myyyyy desk!”.

I quickly looked at the situation and thought Ben was being unreasonable. I mean it simply is unreasonable to demand another to work in a crowded space when more optimum space is available. I explained this to Ben and walked away, hoping for a quick solution.

But hopes are never guaranteed. Before I knew it, Jenn was on the ground flailing in frustration (literally). Ben had tears in his eyes. Neither of them could look at each other and simply asking them what was wrong created the type of face every teacher fears – the near break-down face. “Let’s go outside and chat” I said quickly, fearing the scene would escalate to near “candy-monium”.

Outside in the hall with the two students, I listened. Ben quickly explained why he didn’t want to sit at Jenn’s table. Before my lesson they had been told that one of the absent student’s had chicken pox, and it was highly contagious. They were told to tell their family members, because it was especially important for pregnant women and the elderly to know about – for these groups, chicken pox can be life threatening. Ben had heard this and worried about his grandmother at home. Jenn’s desk was beside the absent student with chicken pox. Ben didn’t want to sit there because he thought he may get infected and cause harm to his grandmother.

Immediately I felt the pangs of remorse for snapping at Ben earlier. What I assumed was just a selfish hesitance to sit at someone else’s table was really an act of compassion and safety. Before I could feel worse, Jenn piped in –

“I think I’m just tired because I was up all night because my neighbour’s porch burned down last night and our house almost caught on fire too!”

My gosh. listen to these children, I thought. Real fears, real life, real happenings outside this classroom, outside of these walls, beyond my lesson, and so far beyond my world. How much made sense when I gave these students’ the time to speak, and I just listened. Really listened.

How many times do we, as adults, pretend to listen while we worry about something else? A wise person once told me real listening is hearing without worrying about what you are going to say next. In worrying about my lesson I had not given these children the chance they needed to explain themselves, and their lives. My lesson on capacity did not go as planned, rather I learned something much more important – good people listen, always. And I was reminded something else I nearly forgot – children truly are the greatest teachers of all.

**Names have been changed.