reading

they’re back. 61 ninth graders and 18 tenth graders. it’s been three weeks and although i only know about twenty names well enough to use them when calling on someone i am already smitten. beyond smitten, i suppose. they are not what i expected at all, not what i’m used to. they can’t read worth much yet and can’t write much either and they complain of boredom. they’re tired or hungry or thirsty or in need of a bathroom just about every ten seconds and sometimes they’re angry but what makes this group different from any other group is that they don’t want to be angry. they come in that way some days but they seem willing, almost needing, to let someone drag them off anger and plop them down somewhere just a little more useful. they seem to have a desire to be- to be something, to be someone, to be more than just an occupier of space. they have expectations.

i do not know what to do about this because now i have nobody to fight with. there is nothing to struggle against. sure, there’s small-time drama, i've had to drag one entire class out into the hall twice now, explain to them how human beings enter a room, then let them go back in, singly, silently, but that's standard. i do that every year. tons of times with some groups. and i have to say things like "quit popping gum while i'm trying to explain your homework" and "books are not to be used to hit someone you don't like" but i've also said, "wow! i never thought of that. can you tell us more about that?" and "that is the most awesome sentence i've seen all year!" and they use words. fancy words. words they're not sure how to spell, but words they know ought to be out there being said. so i get to jump around and howl about these pretty words. and they smile these shy smiles, relieved they said the word with all the right sounds and then also that they used the word to mean the thing they meant.

then today one of the support staff in the room took me aside and mentioned one of our kids can't read. i laughed. none of them can read. that's why they're here. no, she said, i mean really. really. so i took the child outside. she'd been grumpy already, sensing something might be up. she stood outside with me, with her book, angry, defiant, scared to death. i turned to the first page of the book, one she'd chosen to read on her own, and said, "read that first sentence." and she glared at me. she said, quietly, "no. i don't want to. i don't feel like it. i could if i wanted but i don't want to so i'm not going to." and i said, "i'm not sure this is the right book. i'm thinking it may be too boring or too difficult or..." "it's not too difficult. i just don't feel comfortable reading around you." this is a child who, days earlier, professed undying love to me because i am awesome. it is difficult to be awesome when calling a child's bluff and saying, in real live words, "i know you can't read." she knew what i was thinking and she started to read. the. and then she looked at me, glared. "i don't want to. i'm in a bad mood." the next word, by the way, was cast.

we stared at each other there a while and she said, "so i'm stupid. whatever." she's not stupid, though, and i told her exactly that, said i knew she was smart, had been listening to the things she said in class, all smart things. and i looked her and said out loud, plainly, "you're smart. you just can't read. we need to fix that." and her eyes got big. she blurted out, "and how do you think i got to ninth grade without being able to read?" i didn't say what i thought. that there are people who, out of kindness or ugliness or neglect simply send children on, literate or not. i just said, "it happens a lot." and we stood out there maybe ten minutes, her glaring and huffing and saying ridiculous and contradictory things. i just kept saying the same thing. "we'll teach you to read."

and eventually we both stomped back into class. she sat in her desk and rooted around in her bag, huffed a while, snarled at people sitting around her. i read aloud from our classroom book. i glared up at her once while i was reading because she was talking. and she glared back. she kept her book open but didn't look at it. i waited for her to ask to go to the bathroom, the water fountain, her guidance counselor. after the reading, i always ask the kids questions, some just to see if they were listening, some to see if they can think beyond the surface. and i asked. a deep question. a thinking question. her hand shot up. she couldn't sit still. the glare she'd been working so hard to keep on her face had slid off somewhere and her eyes were shiny, flashing. when i looked at her she opened her mouth and out poured all sorts of brilliance. word after word after word.