There have been days where once the last student has gone home, I've sat at my desk, fighting back tears of frustration. These are the days where I need to just sit for a while, to regain my composure before marking the students' work. Is it easy to sit after school, writing positive comments for students who have talked over me and bickered with one another all afternoon? No. But that's part of the job.
Another part of the job is attending staff meetings. On these occasions, all of the teachers pile into one of the classrooms after school. Someone struggles to gain control over an error-prone Smart Board that seems irritable after a long day of use. A box of biscuits is usually passed around to help quell the feelings of "I could be getting so much marking done right now". But it's not all biscuits and fancy Powerpoint effects. Sometimes, something really valuable can be gained.
During this particular meeting, we talked about Attachment Theory. In the most basic sense, this is the idea that a child's early bond with their caregiver, or lack thereof, can have a huge influence on their behaviour. Essentially, if a child doesn't have a secure attachment (e.g. a loving, caring relationship with a caregiver), they may display what may appear to us as "problem" behaviours.
We were asked to recall a specific child from our class, and discuss what their challenging behaviours are. Then, we were asked to think about what the child may be trying to communicate through their actions, or what might be causing them to behave in such a way.
My TA immediately suggested a particular girl in my class, lets call her Carly, for no particular reason. I begrudgingly agreed -- my feelings of frustration with her already swirling around in my head. It was difficult to open up and talk about this girl, I now realize, because I had already developed somewhat of a mental block towards her.
Carly was only in my class for part of the day. She attended a special group for children who need a little extra emotional or behavioural support, often times due to troubles at home. But it was difficult to feel as empathetic towards her as I should have, as from the moment she walked into my already chaotic classroom in the afternoon, she did nothing but escalate the chaos.
She was rude. She would do something to provoke another student, and then laugh or grin mischeviously at me when I told her to stop. She would take off her shoes on the carpet, throw bits of paper, and turn around the wrong way to distract the students behind her. It's hard to be patient when your lesson is being derailed (for the fifth time in the past hour) by three students having various dramatic reactions to Carly picking her nose, who is grinning and remorseless at the reaction she's earned.
So I followed the usual steps. I paused and looked. I warned. I warned again. I sent off the carpet. I sent out of the room. And yet, every day, there she was. Waltzing into my classroom, a tiny time bomb ready to explode at any minute.
Someone who may or may not have been Albert Einstein once said: "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results". But in my mind, I was like: "Who cares what Albert Einstein says. I am the teacher, damn it, and I will not let this girl get away with doing this to me!" At this meeting, however, my perspective slowly changed.
Carly wasn't doing these things to deliberately make my life more difficult. It was evident that she could have been dealing with some difficult things. It was also very obvious that she craved attention, badly. But what if she had never learned how to get attention in the right way? What if the only way she knew how to get it was to act out? Then the obvious solution would be to teach her how to get attention in a positive way. A shift in perspective required a shift in approach.
The next day, when I walked into the school, who should I see but Carly. "Hi Miss!!" she said, excitedly. "How could she be so happy to see me, when I feel like all I do is tell her off?" I thought. But then I remembered the discussion from the previous afternoon at the meeting. Her greeting made sense within the context of an attention and approval-starved little girl. I made note of it again when she brought me a handful of wildflowers after lunch.
That afternoon, I focused my attention on her (as much as one can in a class of 23). She came in, and immediately sat down in my chair. "I'm the teacher!!" she cried, looking to see my reaction. I held back the urge to immediately scold her for being silly and invading my personal space. But I took a deep breath:
"Actually, I'm the teacher, and I need my chair back." I said, in a light tone. "But how would you like to be my helper teacher this afternoon?"
Carly nodded with a big grin on her face.
"Okay, well as my helper teacher, you need to help me make sure that all of the other kids are behaving, and set a good example for them. Can you show all of the other students how to walk back to their desks properly?"
To my surprise, she did walk back to her desk properly, and got started on her handwriting. As I walked around getting the students to settle in, I took special care to praise her and to give her a sticker and a smile for being on task.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, it felt like somehow, Carly had picked up on my change of attitude towards her. It was a little eerie. I continued praising her, giving her behaviour tickets, or picking her for the privilege to come up and answer a question on the Smart Board when she was sitting nicely. All afternoon, I made the effort to acknowledge her, notice her good behaviour, and speak kindly with her. For the first time in what felt like ages, I didn't have to send her out of the room, or even off of the carpet. I made sure to tell her support teachers and her mother what a good afternoon she had. This all may seem a bit overboard for simply following classroom expectations, but for this little girl, it felt groundbreaking. I felt like I was finally taking steps toward connecting to her, when before, my brain would just shut down at her rude behaviour.
Of course, I was skeptical of how long this would keep up for, and I have no illusions of her suddenly becoming a perfectly behaved little angel overnight. These things take time and effort. But it wasn't the rude, disruptive Carly that walked into my classroom the following Monday, and I noticed.
So yes, my class still frustrates me to no end some days. And no, I can't turn all of their behaviour around for the better. I still spend most afternoons putting out metaphorical fires. But I've learned that only looking at the big picture can make you feel like a failure, and can be destructive to both yourself and your class. Every behaviour is communication, and every student is a person with something to say. It's our job as teachers to listen.
Until next time,
C.
