Reversing the Poles on a Magnet

Just apply heat

It’s my 4th and final year at this inner city school in Charlotte, NC. I have spent many days thinking about how far I’ve come. I said 4 years ago that I wanted to be a survivor. Even more, I wanted to thrive. It hasn’t really felt like thriving, but today, especially, it hit me how much things have changed. The changes have been subtle, yet the end result is quite drastic.
In the previous 3 years, I have had chairs thrown at me, I’ve been called a rainbow of inflammatory names, have had to hide tears from students, and, at times, have openly cried in front of students. I’ve had my phone stolen, I’ve had students throw my water bottle in the trash, steal pens and money out of my pockets, and throw paper at me and, at one point, gum.
But on Friday, I stood at the bus parking lot to monitor kids and in that time I had 2 first graders come and lean their heads on my stomach and hold onto me until their bus came. Another little one came to hug my leg. Then, as the middle schoolers came out for their buses, I had one of my current students lay her head on my back. And two of my previous students come to hug me goodbye for the weekend. More came and soon I had students of all ages clumping around me to talk, joke with me, hug me, or hang onto me for guidance.
If you’ve ever put a magnet in a dish with metal shavings, you might have an idea of what this was like.

That’s me dressed in red.

2 years ago, I had a nightmare about being haunted by my most troubling class of students. In my sleep, they disrupted my classroom like poltergeists, clanging metal and calling out over my instruction.
Now my biggest issue is being haunted by my last batch of students who keep coming into my room on their bathroom breaks to say “hi.” They interrupt my class to ask me corny jokes with pun-tastic answers. They come by to try to sneak attack me with a hug and ask if they can come back to 6th grade and be a part of my class again. Sometimes they just slip into my room and try to blend in with my current class.
My first class at this school made bets on how fast they could make me quit. Now I have students who want me to tell them which class I like more and if I’ll stay forever.
Unfortunately, I can’t stay forever. Next year, the district will split the school into two and I will be forced to go elsewhere (I don’t know where, yet). But God, in his infinite kindness, has decided to make this last year a sweet blessing to me, with kids who leave sweet notes and gifts on my desk instead of taking things from my desk.

Class Notes

IMG_0228A few years ago, I read a story about one of those life-changing teachers that lifted her students’s self-image by having them write one thing that they admired about each person in their class. It was a sweet story and one that I knew I could never replicate because the amount of censoring I’d have to do with so many notes would be brain-numbing.

But by the end of this school year, I started to wonder if maybe it’d be worth it. God knows, my students could use a little encouragement from their peers, and my classes seemed a little more likely to cooperate than my previous year’s students.

So in the last few weeks of school, I stood in front of each class with a big smile and announced that they would be writing notes to everyone in their class–good notes! Positive notes! Just one good thing about each person in the room.

The students groaned.

“Everybody?” One of them asked.

“I ain’t got nothin’ good to say about him!” Another said, pointing a finger across the classroom to a boy who stuck his tongue out at her.

“Come on,” I said, dropping my smile, but trying not to drop my hope. “You guys can do this! You’ve been with each other all year! You know each other so well!”

It took a little more coaxing before they were willing to try. But all I needed was for them to try.

Now, I don’t know what the legendary teacher of the tale had done to help her students find positive things to say about each other, but for me, it was an interesting journey. I knew the students would draw blanks on a lot of their classmates, so to help them along, I made a chart filled with words like “dignified,” “meek,” “funny,” “leader,” and “mad scientist.” For one full day, we worked on putting students into broad categories that might jog their minds about what to say.

It was supposed to be a simple warm-up, but I was glad that it became much more involved. The students spent the first bit of class asking each other how to spell their names, arguing with each other about who belongs where, and defending each other for their positions in the chart.

After they had settled a few things between them, I gave the students an opportunity to come up to the front of class and share where they put someone on the chart and then explain why. “Try to tell us about someone that maybe other classmates forgot about,” I said, hoping that my more difficult students would get a chance to hear something nice about them.

This turned out to be pretty inspiring! Students who normally caught a lot of flack from others had the chance to hear accolades about them. “Ariel is a ‘superhero’ to me,” one student said about a particularly abrasive classmate. “Whenever someone is picking on me, she always stands up for me!”

“Omarion is a mad scientist.” Another student got up to speak about an autistic boy in the class who really struggled with social interaction. “He’s always on technology.” This made Omarion rock back and forth in his chair with little happy sounds. It was the first time his classmates said so many positive things about him. Normally they just directed him around class.

The verbal accolades for each other stretched on until the bell rang that day, and even then, a lot of students wanted to stay after and say just one more nice thing about someone else. The few students I had that couldn’t read or write really soaked up this time to be able to tell the class how they felt without ever writing it down. Students who normally get ignored were acknowledged and discussed with more and more students adding on what good thing they noticed. And at the end of the day, I had learned a thing or two about my students that I had not known before!

And then it was time for the note writing. I gave the students colored pieces of paper to write their notes on and then told them to make sure they got to everyone in class. Each class responded differently to the task. In one block, I had students writing notes and then wanting to run around class, or call out across class to tell the other person immediately what they had written about them. It brought instant joy in sharing the sweet thoughts.

In another class, the students were a lot more secretive. And in another class, I had a handful of students who purposefully thought through all the students that might get overlooked and then take time to write profoundly edifying notes to those students. One of my students who could not read or write begged me to help him write a note–just one–to the classmate that had affected him the most–it was the girl that had the patience to work with him and didn’t make him feel humiliated for not knowing how to read and write.

While the students wrote their notes to each other, I, too, wrote notes to each of them. When I started, I thought it’d just be a really nice way to end the year and say something encouraging to each of my students. But after a while, I really started to understand how big the number 85 was. And by the time I made it through 60 students, I was running out of ways to be encouraging.

But, class by class, I wrote notes to each student on the back of their envelope. And for the next few days, as I worked to complete those notes in all of my free time, the students begged to see what I said about them. Some of them tried to steal them off my desk to take a peek. Several students, when they saw that I was writing them notes, started writing me notes, too.

Quick note about the green one on the right: The “hateful comments” she’s referring to are things that she said a few weeks prior to this. It was especially encouraging to hear her say she respected me after the things she had said to me earlier.

In the last week of school, I started handing out the envelopes for each student, filled with notes that his or her classmates had written. On the back of each envelop was the note I had written to each of them. I passed them out to the students at the very end of the day, as they were getting ready to go to the buses or to their cars. And all through the halls, 6th graders walked with their heads down, reading their envelopes, or pulling out the notes to see what others had said about them.

Honestly, I don’t know if this activity will be as life-changing and influential as the story that inspired it. But over the last few days of school, the students showed a lot of care and tenderness for each other. They constantly came up to me to say how much they appreciated my note and talked about what others had said about them. And by the end of the year, after the students had run out of paper and lost all their pencils, my classroom was filled with more notes:


The Cow-Tail Switch and Family Values

One of my favorite stories to read with my classes is The Cow-Tail Switch. It’s a short, African folktale about a hunter that is killed by a leopard in the forest. It takes all of his sons to bring him back to life, and after he returns form the dead, he makes a cow-tail switch (a sign of honor and authority in the village) and wants to give it to the son that did the most to bring him back home.

The funnest thing about this story is that, traditionally, there was no real ending. The point of it was to argue over which son did the most important thing to bring him back from the dead, but it’s impossible to say which was most important because each brother’s work was useless on its own and dependent on each other to bring the father back. So how do you decide?

“Let’s have a death match over it,” one of my students said in 3rd block. We had just performed a little reader’s theater with the piece, which really put the students in the mindset of the characters. Then we started a class debate over who should get the cow-tail switch. Both previous classes had argued and voted, civilly on who should get the switch. But my 3rd block always made things interesting. “I can take all ya’ll,” he said as if he really was the son that gave his father blood to live.

“That’s not fair, Zion,” I said. “The youngest brother is only two years old by the time they find the father. You can’t fight a two year old!”

“Yes, I can!” he said. “He’ll be the first one out!”

“I think we should just burn it,” one of the girls said as if the switch was really sitting front of us. “It’s causing too much trouble.”

The verbal battle over the imaginary cow-tail switch (an item that no one in the class understood or cared about when we first started the story), went on until the bell interrupted us, signalling the end of class. My 3rd block students argued all the way out the door and into math class.

Then it was time for 4th block. We went through the story in the same way and when it arrived for the big celebration where the hunter, Ogaloussa, chooses which son to give the switch to, we began our debate.

At first, it was a debate very similar to every class before us, they brought up each of the sons and weighed their contributions to their father’s reincarnation. But then something strange happened.

“So what do we do?” I asked to wrap things up.

A tiny little doll of a girl raised her hand. “I think we should share it,” she said. “Can we share it?”

A few other students nodded their heads.

“Oh yeah!” another student added on. “We can put it in one of those glass cases and the whole family can keep it in their house!”

“How about if we just make more of them?” Another student said. “Then each son can get one.”

“Or we could take it apart and use each piece in a new switch so that every son gets a piece of the first switch.”

This class came up with more ways to share the switch than there were characters to give it to! I had never heard any idea like it in all the times I’ve taught the story. But I had to stir up some kind of controversy. So I said, “Let’s assume we only have the one switch and we have to give it to only one person. Who would we give it to?”

They thought for a moment, and then someone raised their hand. “What about the mother?” he said “She’s the one that raised all the sons. She had to raise all seven of them! She’s the one that kept the family together when the father was dead. She’s the one that must’ve taught them to do all the things they know how to do. She deserves it the most.”

All the students nodded.

We took a vote in the last minute before the end of class and the mother won in a landslide.

It struck me how odd that was. The mother is barely even a character in the story. She has no lines of dialogue and is mentioned perhaps twice in the whole passage. She could have just as easily not existed and it wouldn’t’ve changed the story.

But the mother figure of any family is not so easily overlooked by my students–most of whom live with single mothers. To them, that invisible mother in the African village was the cornerstone of the family. All of the arguments spoken on her behalf were just as true for each student’s own mother. And when they took that vote in the end, they weren’t voting for a fictional character. They voted with a heart dipped in the reality of their own lives.

It was beautiful.

Confession of a Wrong

I must confess to a mental wrong doing: I am guilty of a hurtful and possibly harmful judgement made on a boy in my class. I am not telling this story to try to explain away my crime, or excuse myself. I am telling this story so that others might recognize their own symptoms of stereotyping others.

This young boy appeared on my classroom roster before school started, but he did not come to class the first day. His cousin did, though–a cleanly dress, tall girl with glasses and colorful school supplies. I asked her where her cousin was and she simply rolled her eyes and said, “he wants to pretend we aren’t related.”

He did come to school the second day. As soon as I saw him in the hallway, I took a breath and thought, “oh, boy.” He had a face that looked much more mature than an 11 year old should, but not in the “I know better than to cause problems” sort of maturity. His solid jawline and squarish features indicated that he was either older than the others in the grade, or that he simply matured, physically, much faster than everyone. Either way, it screamed trouble to me and gave me flashbacks to some of my most difficult students of previous years–the ones that ran gangs and got girls to do things that 11 year olds are much too young to be doing.

He smiled broadly at everyone–the kind of smile that was less friendly and more mischievous–and stepped into my classroom with a swagger that made  him look like he owned the room.

That smile never left his face as he squatted with his feet in his chair and raised his hand to volunteer to read out loud just before saying, “psych!” And pulling his hand down.

When I asked him to sit properly in his chair, he jokingly tried out several positions with his feet on the desk or wherever he knew would be bothersome.

His cousin sighed loudly across the room.

I wrote him off after only 2 attempts to call on him, deciding that he probably wouldn’t give a reasonable response to anything, regardless of the fact that he raised his hand constantly. I gave up on him before the first week of school had ended.

But I was wrong. And this isn’t a “people can change” story. No. This boy didn’t suddenly change his attitude. He is still the playful kid he always was.

But in an attempt to be “fair” I called on him the second week of school to answer questions. “Nah, I don’t want to answer,” he said with a smile and yanked his hand down. I gave an internal eye roll and looked to someone else to answer, but then he said, “I’m just kidding, I’ll answer.” The next string of words that came out of his mouth proved to me that everything I thought about him was exactly wrong. Not only had he been paying attention to our class discussion when I thought he had tuned out, but he had solid insights to offer.

I called on him more often after that and was greatly impressed with his level of positive participation. The one thing he still would not do was read out loud (though, he did manage to psych me out about it a few more times).

But even that barrier got crossed eventually and I realized why he was much more comfortable playing games instead of reading. Three syllable words were not easy for him. And as I listened to him struggle to read a few sentences out loud in front of the class, I realized that it took a lot of courage for him to go through with reading instead of psyching me out.

We’re into week 5 in school and he has become a lot more comfortable with trying, even when he sees those big words and knows he’ll stumble in front of everyone. He keeps that mischievous smile on his face and volunteers more than most students to do/answer/read anything. And I am so grateful that my first impressions of him and my reactions to him did not harm his desire to try, do, and learn.

Thank you, Michael, for teaching me a valuable lesson so early in the school year.


It’s National Poetry Writing Month! And you know what that means!


It means that school is almost out

But the kids are getting antsy.

As each day gets warmer outside

I have to try harder not to get angry.


It’s not that they’re so terrible

But they squirm and want to play.

No one wants to sit still for hours

When outside it’s such a nice day.


Sometimes I lose my temper

Though I try to control it a while.

But even when they drive me crazy

There’s always a few that make me smile.

Kiera 001
Alayah 001

An Ode to Inner City Mothers

It’s a little early for mothers day, but I have to do this.
When I first started teaching, I was only 10 years older than my students. When a few of them started calling me “Mom” or “Auntie,” I bulked and made it clear that I was not that old. Now I’m between 15 and 17 years older than my students and I still can’t swallow the idea of being any kind of mother. But when I meet my students mothers, they are my own age. And more often than not, they have more than one kid.
It stuns me every time. When I first heard that one of my 15 year old students was a father and that his mother had had him at 15–the concept of being a grandmother at the age of 30–I couldn’t fathom what that meant for a home life. But it’s a scenario that is all too common in the inner city.
This is not said to shame anyone. On the contrary, I want to honor the mothers that somehow provide for a family against so many odds.
One mother, in particular, deserves the praise. She can’t possibly be more than 30 years old, but wherever she goes, a trail of 7 kids follow close behind, complete with two sets of twins. With no husband to help her (or anyone else that I have ever seen or heard about), she somehow finds a way to provide for her small clan of kids. I can’t imagine how many hours at what kind of job she must have to do so.
But if that wasn’t enough, her tribe of children are not the most docile kids. Her oldest son is one I like to refer to as the mad scientist. With the right tools, he would destroy the world. He’s smart (ridiculously smart) but there’s no kind of trouble he won’t get in to.
The next two oldest in the family are twin girls, also highly intelligent. One is known as the angel and the other is clearly the evil twin. It’s important to be aware of which one you are talking to.
The rest of her kids are in elementary school, and I have not had the pleasure of knowing them. But my point is this:
This young mother not only finds a way to provide for all of these little mischievous geniuses, but always makes sure to come to every parent-teacher meeting, with her train of little ones behind her.
On open house nights, you will see her walking the school hallways, going from one class to the next and taking time to talk to every single one of her kid’s teachers, listening to them list all the horribly disastrous things that her kids have done in class, so that by the time she reaches me, her eyes are red with tears and her body slumped with fatigue. Her children, too, are tired and dragging each other through the door. Each one is responsible for taking care of the next youngest. The mother will drop into a chair tell me she doesn’t want to hear one more bad thing about her kids.
Nor do I want to tell her one more bad thing. I am in complete awe that she would even take time out of her day to come and talk to me, when most parents ignore us completely.
So I search earnestly for something good to say about her son. And when I manage to find just one kind word, she smiles and straightens up with pride for her family.
She makes my night. She inspires me. With the weight of so many things stacked against her, she puts in the effort to care about each and every one of her children and their education. And that is why I have to honor her.
But it’s not only her.
With this new school year underway, I’ve already spotted other mothers like her coming out to meet the teachers at open house with a small clan of kids in tow, each child looking after the next youngest in line. The mothers have a long night of meetings ahead of them, but they’re there.
They are symbols of strength and diligence in the community–working against the push and shove of adversity and hardship. Very few people acknowledge them and the exhausting dedication they exude. But someone should.

Explaining my Tattoo to Kids of the Inner City

Working in a place where everyone and their 30-year-old grandma has a tattoo, it’s been an interesting experience trying to explain mine to them. I thought it was simple to understand. Especially since so many of them understand the significance of a cross.

The difference stemmed from the fact that they think a tattoo should be a part of self expression. It’s very personal. Unless it’s a gang tattoo. Then it’s a part of a group identity and is meant to show loyalty.

“That’s a gang tattoo,” the kids told me in May. “You’re a part of a gang. Or at least a squad.”

“No,” I insisted.

“Yes,” they said. “It’s a tattoo that all these people got to show that their the same, right? That’s a gang tattoo.”

I was baffled (as I often am with these kids), but after I let the idea sink in, I accepted it as a difference in semantics. Since gangs are what they know, their vocabulary to describe what I have reflects that. They don’t understand standing in solidarity with others around the world, but they understand sticking up for a gang brother. And really, the two are the same.

What I mean to say is, I, apparently, am a part of a “gang,” which would make Jesus my gang leader. He’s a very strange sort of gang leader. He says things like, “If someone takes a swing at you, let him take another, too” and “Love your enemies and pray for those who hurt you.”

It was not the conversation I expected to have over my tattoo, but it has been a fascinating look into the world of my students and a chance to see myself in a new light. I already knew that I was a Citizen of Heaven (Philippians 3:20), an Ambassador (2 Corinthians 5:20), a Slave of Christ (1 Corinthians 7:22), a Prisoner of Christ (Ephesians 3:1), a Temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19), a Child of God (John 1:12) and a Friend of God (John 15:15). But now, I have a new identity:

I’m Christ’s Gang Member (my students).

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