A Regular Kid
By Paula Carter

When I first met Nya, she was sitting in the office with a coat over her head. It was a July morning that had the makings of another 100-degree day. I talked to her for a moment and got minimal response.

"Hi, do you go to school here?" I asked. There was no response as she peered out from under the coat. "What's your name?" No response. "What grade are you in?" No response. She finally uttered a few undecipherable sounds, and I went on my way to begin the second day of our new school year.

Student in transit. Right after I entered the classroom, Theresa Crowley, my team-teaching partner, walked through the doorway followed by the same girl I had just been trying to talk to.

"We have a new third grader!" she said.

"Oh, yes, we've met. Welcome!" I said. The child whom we had before us had been a no- show the first day. The special education teacher had already given us her thick file, laden with testing and behavioral referrals. There was an admission from her mother that the child was drug-affected. Her family had a history of going from school to school. Between evictions from apartments, they had lived in motels, cars and shelters.

Given Nya's history of flitting from place to place, we didn't know how long we might have her in our class. "Why gear up for such effort, when you knew you might not have this student for long?" you might ask. The answer: What is best for the neediest child in the class is best for all of the children.

A classroom family. There were three things that needed to happen in our classroom, and those things needed to happen quickly. First, we needed to be very up-front about the purpose of school, which, in my mind, is to become educated both academically and socially. Next, Nya and the rest of the children needed to develop a sense of community in which everyone was included, like a somewhat functional family. Finally, we would let others who worked with Nya know that we needed to go the extra distance for this student. We would advocate for her.

Instead of treating Nya like someone who couldn't, or wouldn't, do something, we talked to her like a regular kid. We began by assessing her reading. We used Joetta Beaver's Developmental Reading Assessment® and found that Nya was at a DRA level 4, which would be comparable to that of a beginning first grader. I had a frank talk with her.

"Nya, you are way behind. Ms. Crowley and I have been teaching for a long time. We have taught many kids to read. There's no reason you can't learn to be a good reader. Do you want to learn?" She nodded her head, yes.

Knowing full well that she had probably overheard conversations indicating that her learning ability was impaired, I asked, "Have you ever had the idea that your brain does not work as well as other children's brains?" She nodded her head, yes. We had a place to begin.

"Well, we believe you can learn as well as other children. If you'll listen to what we have to say, what we want to teach you, you will learn."

Positive tattling. Over the next few weeks, rude behaviors abounded. Nya belted out loud, distracting sounds. She avoided work by shoving, yelling and blaming. She scurried under tables or lay down on the floor, just as a two-year-old in the throws of a tantrum might do. Students often tattled about her behaviors…as if they thought we were not able to see what was going on! We feared that the whole class was going to be seriously impacted if we did not get control of the situation.

We didn't have time to tiptoe around what was going on; we talked openly about the problem at hand. We told the students that we had an obligation as a class to learn together and support each other's efforts, to lift up everyone in the classroom and not leave anyone behind. The unsolicited tattling was quickly extinguished. We assured them that we would not allow them to be hurt, but that while we worked with Nya on her behavior, they needed to do their jobs.

We encouraged the children to report what people were doing right. One day, I asked Nya how the classes' manners had been during the lunch period. After she recovered from the momentary shock of being asked such a question, she said, "Good."

The students were feeling a little off-balance, which was exactly what we wanted. What were they to do instead of reporting on negative behaviors? They began to figure out that, while we knew a problem existed, we wanted to hear about the successes so we could all build on them.

Eventually, as Nya's work periods lengthened and behavior outbursts shortened, the class began displaying a stronger community spirit, which helped everyone's learning. We noticed that the students were complimenting Nya and others without being prompted to do so. In other words, we were seeing improvements.

A parting gift. Then, one October day, a teacher told us, "We're doing a home visit today. We think Nya's family is living outside of our school zone. We might be able to get her moved out of our school."

Perhaps some people would have taken this as good news. Theresa and I were distraught but didn't know, at the moment, what to say. I e-mailed my principal. "Isn't there some way we can keep this child?" I asked. "We are making progress. She needs stability."

The next morning, I approached the teacher who had delivered the news."I want to be up-front with you," I said. "We are going to fight to keep Nya. We don't know if we'll be successful, but we are going to try."

Even though I knew we would probably lose Nya, I wanted fellow staff members to know our position: We go the whole nine yards to do what we think is best for a student. We refuse to just sit back and talk about the futility of a situation if we think there is something we can do about it.

We met Nya on one of the hottest days in July. On a cold, foggy December morning, we learned she would be moving to another school. She left us reading at a DRA level 16, which is comparable to a late first grade reading level. Did she make progress? Yes. Did she read at a third grade level? No. Did we fix her dysfunctional family life? No.

When a child like Nya comes and goes, I take comfort in the fact that, for a while, she was able to look into the faces of a few adults who looked back at her with expressions that said, "We know that you are capable of doing what the other children around you are doing." The message we tried to give her was that she could learn, she could belong and she could become a valued member of a community. I was not happy about her leaving, but if she had to go, she could at least take that message with her. That was our parting gift to her.

Paula Carter team teaches in a 1-2-3 multi-age classroom at Rita Cannan Elementary School in Reno, NV.

October 2005, Vol.36, No.2