a boy named stevie

While my intent in these blog posts is to chronicle my journey over the next few months, this little series wouldn't be complete without a few stories from the past.  The highlights, if you will.

Over the years, I've had the privilege of teaching over 1000 students. While they're all special in their own way, there are some kids who jumped right into my heart and stayed there.

Stevie is one of those kids.

Several years ago, I was assigned a class of "advanced" seventh-grade language arts students. All of them were identified as high-achievers or gifted in the areas of reading or writing except one: Stevie. Don't get me wrong- he was brilliant in many ways...but language arts just weren't his particular brand of genius.

I'm not sure how Stevie ended up in there. If I recall, it was because of numbers and scheduling. Regardless, there he was.  

Stevie was one of those kids whose name preceded him. "Oh, you have Stevie?" other teachers asked. "You'll love him...but he'll keep you on your toes."

So with that in mind, I wore high heels the first day. I had a feeling I was going to need all the help I could get.

On the first day, I passed out the syllabus titled "Advanced Language Arts." Stevie looked at the paper, then looked up at me, quizzically. But before the other students noticed, he nodded his head and leaned back in his chair as if to say, "Yep. I knew it all along. I'm a reading genius."

I never told him differently.

I've come to realize that God places certain kids in certain classes for certain reasons. And that year, Stevie was a ray of light. I quickly learned what the other teachers meant when they warned that he'd "keep me on my toes." See, Stevie never sat down. Ever. He "perched" in his chair like a bird. Sometimes, he'd decide to sit at my desk. Other times, he'd sit on the floor. Usually, during a lesson, he'd walk around the room, busying himself with little tasks. "This closet is a mess!" he'd announce as I was teaching. "I'm cleaning it!" And the weird thing is, I'd let him. He had an uncanny ability to multitask, that boy.

I run a pretty tight ship in the classroom, but for some reason, I let Stevie get away with more than most. Perhaps I was  learning to pick my battles. Perhaps it was his charm. Either way, the kid played me like a fiddle, and he knew it. His song, however, was more endearing than annoying.

I learned a lot from watching Stevie that year. Not only did he believe he was gifted, but he believed that I thought he was gifted. And because of that belief, he excelled. He tried a little harder, read a little more... it was really quite remarkable.

You see, Stevie taught me that kids will match the expectations that one sets forth. Tell them they're smart, and they'll show it. Tell them they can't, and they won't.

The following year, I was assigned to teach one period of an 8th grade elective class. Until that point, I'd never requested a student. But when I learned I'd be teaching an 8th grade class, I marched down to the guidance office and asked for Stevie. "You want him again? You had him for three hours a day last year. Didn't he wear you out?" they asked.  They were confused, but they put him in my class anyway.

One of the first big projects I assigned was a public service announcement. The kids had to choose a topic and create a computerized slideshow encouraging others to take action on an issue. Stevie hated projects. To him, they required too much time, and he often lost interest pretty quickly. But to my surprise, he was all about this assignment. He got to work quickly and deliberately. 

Feeling suspicious yet? Yeah. I was, too. 

When I asked him his topic, he wouldn't tell me:

"Don't worry, Mrs. Nianouris!  I've got it under control!"

"I know. That's why I'm worried," I replied.

"Don't you trust me?"

"I'm not sure. I'd like to...Is it appropriate, Stevie?" I asked.

"Yes. It's appropriate."

"Can you at least give me a hint about the topic?"

"It's a serious concern, Mrs. Nianouris. Just trust me. Promise." 

So I did.

On the day of Stevie's presentation, he begged me to go first, and I let him, anxious to see the result of his hard work. He dimmed the lights and set up the computer. Soft music began playing as the first words appeared on the screen:

SAVE THE COCK. 

"Stevie!" I yelled, searching frantically for the remote to stop his presentation. More words appeared on the screen.

DO YOU CARE ABOUT COCKS?

"Stevie! press pause! NOW!"

 IT'S TIME WE TAKE A STAND TO HELP THE COCKS!

I rushed to the computer to stop his presentation. And then, the first picture appeared: A chicken. Then another: Two chickens. Two fighting chickens.

His entire presentation was about stopping cock fighting. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

At the end, he turned on the lights. "How'd I do?" he asked, beaming and winking all at once.

"Stevie, you followed the requirements, but do you really think that was an appropriate topic choice!?"

"Mrs. Nianouris, MY presentation was about the ABUSE of chicken fighting! It's a very serious issue!" he exclaimed with feigned innocence. "If anyone's mind went somewhere else, well, that's just sick!"

Well played, kiddo. Well played.

I gave him a B+, and he gave me a great story to tell at cocktail parties for years to come.

* Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the student

and so it begins...

On Day 71, I stood before my students with a giant "71" projected on the screen behind me. (Note - I plan to project the number every day. Today was Tuesday. I dread Thursday. The projector might be conveniently "broken" on Thursday.  Do the math. If you've ever taught middle school, you know why.)  

I asked them if we could talk for a minute.

For the record, when you ask 8th graders this question, the answer is always, always yes. Yes, Mrs. Nianouris, we can talk! Talk for an hour! In fact, talk for TWO! We don't care! We will listen like it's the best story we've ever heard! (...as long as it has NOTHING to do with what we are studying.)

So I sat down on my stool and explained my plans to leave the classroom this spring. I didn't really tell them why, because that wasn't the point.  Their reactions were mixed. Some teared up, some looked betrayed, some looked at the clock, others at their fingernails- the usual myriad of adolescent expression.

I explained my mission: "For the next 71 days, I vow to do something to make sure each of you know how special and loved you are. So we are going to start with standing ovations. How many of you have had a standing ovation?"

No hands. 

"Why do people give others standing ovations?"

Hands shot up. "Because they're good at something!" they replied.

"Right. We give standing ovations to celebrate people. And you know what? You all deserve to be celebrated. Celebrated just because you're alive. Celebrated because you've made it this far. So beginning today, one of you will receive a standing ovation until we've gone through the entire class. You will yell, scream, shout, and stomp. We will be so loud that they will hear us in the office. We will be so loud that other teachers will come in here wondering what the heck is going on. You will cheer for your friends, and you will cheer for your enemies. You will cheer equally loud for every single person because that's what you'll want them to do for you. Normally, we will pull names out of a hat. But today, I will pick the first person." (Read: I hadn't cut up the names yet)

I quickly scanned the morning group and called on a sweet girl named Mary (names have been changed to protect the privacy of the students). Mary is a cancer survivor. She's beautiful, quiet, and kind. She wears a head scarf most days, and man, she rocks it. Mary is a true testament to beauty and strength. A warrior among warriors.

Mary walked tentatively toward the front of the room as the students rose from their seats. And then, for 60 glorious seconds, her classmates went crazy. At one point, about 15 seconds in, I watched Mary gasp and bring her hand toward her mouth. I wasn't close enough to see if she was crying, but I know one thing: I was. You guys, I wish I could play you the video, but you'll just have to trust me when I say that it was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed.

In the afternoon, I took a different route. I chose a boy with whom I've really struggled this year. See, this young man doesn't really do much in my class. Homework, to him, is not a requirement, but an option. An option he rarely never picks.  And man, does that frustrate me sometimes, because he's SO capable. 

But here's the thing I love about him:  He never makes excuses. He doesn't pretend to hunt through his materials when I'm collecting work. When I ask him if he has it, he just says no. When I ask him why he isn't paying attention, he often tells me he's just not interested in what I'm saying.  It's refreshing, actually, his honesty.

He's a really neat kid. Very deep. Very introspective. I have a feeling he'd have a lot to say if he thought anyone at school cared enough to listen.

Yesterday afternoon, we celebrated this young man. A young man who's probably never been celebrated in school for any reason. He stood there accepting the applause, looking very unsure at first, holding on to the back of his neck.  By the end, he finally smiled. Just a little, but I saw it.

I hope that he felt special. Because he is.

70 days left.

71

From Kindergarten on, I knew precisely what I wanted to be when I grew up:

A teacher.

My career preparation started early. As a young girl, I used to study the teachers more than the content, paying closer attention to how they taught than what they taught. I took note of what worked and what didn’t. I paid attention to ways they made kids feel special and ways they made kids feel horrible. Ways they encouraged kids to do homework, and methods that made it easy to cheat.  I even kept a little notebook titled “What to Do and What Not to Do When I’m a Teacher.” I was always, always watching. 

But as I sit here reflecting on all those teachers throughout the years, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you specific lessons or books we read. And that’s the funny part, right?  Because although school’s primary purpose is rooted in the BIG things like reading, writing, and arithmetic, those aren’t the things we remember with clarity all these years later. No, we remember the way we felt.

I remember how Miss Distelrath gave us popcorn every Friday. Not the microwave kind, but the real, buttery, air-popped popcorn in a greasy brown paper bag.  One time, I asked her if she made it at school during lunch. “No,” she replied. “I make it at home on Thursday nights.”  This was a revelation to me! Teachers go home? They have houses? And husbands? And kids? We aren’t the center of their universe?

 Miss Distelrath cared enough about us to make us popcorn at home. At night. In her real life.  And because of that, we felt loved. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel loved like that.

I remember the beanbags in Mrs. Dietz’s room during story time. We would rush to the reading carpet to claim our spot as she read aloud. She read to us for pleasure, creating voices and characters, making the story come alive, and we relaxed on those beanbags, taking it all in.  We were comfortable. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel comfortable like that.

I remember Mrs. Keogh’s standing ovations. There were 25 kids in our class, and every day, for 25 straight days, a student received a standing ovation. A screaming, clapping, shouting celebration of his or her existence.  Each day, in those 60 seconds, something magical happened. Popularity and loneliness were erased as the jocks and cheerleaders whooped and hollered for the bookworms and vice versa. No one’s ovation was louder than anyone else’s. The bully was celebrated. The nerds were celebrated. And we all felt so special. I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel special like that.

But I also remember teachers who were cold. Teachers who were worn out or disillusioned with the career path they’d chosen. They would lecture the entire class for the fault of one, or show no interest in our lives. They would teach, assign homework, assess, and move on. Lather, rinse, and repeat - showing little interest in connecting with us as people. They made us feel invisible, and I knew I never wanted to make kids feel like that.

12 years ago, when I first started teaching 7^th grade, I armed myself with all the lessons I’d learned from my years of watching, walked into that classroom and did my best. I planned lessons, taught the content, and worked really damn hard to make each kid feel important. Looking back, those lessons were certainly not the best by any standards, and I’d like to think my skills as an educator have improved significantly throughout the years. My ability to make kids feel special, however, has waned. The standing ovations have been replaced by grammar drills. The comfortable, bright classroom has been replaced with anchor charts about mood and theme. Do they still know I  love them? I’m not so sure.

Last week, I made the most difficult decision of my life. I decided to stop teaching this spring.  There are many, many reasons behind this choice, but that’s not the purpose of this post, or the blog entries that will follow. Instead, I plan to chronicle the days I have left.

I sat down at my desk and counted the school days until June 4. There are exactly 71.

I have 71 days left in a career for which I’ve spent a lifetime preparing.

71 days to remind kids that no matter how they do on a test or a quiz, they are loved.

71 days to make each and every child feel comfortable in my classroom.

71 days to make let every one of those kids know that they are divinely special.

I  have lost my way from time to time over the years, but I vow to get back there. And I have 71 days left to do that.