When Worlds Collide

Yesterday the girls and I made a special trip: to meet the Baby Echos. We'd been invited by their classroom teacher in honour of their end-of-year class project: a Kool-aid stand. The Charlie Brown-style booth made of cardboard and a thigh-high table was painted every colour of the rainbow with the words "Kool-aid 10¢" in awkward six-year-old printing. Each child had contributed to the operation with either powder packets or cups and would take their turn manning the stand over the course of the day. The whole school had promised to visit, so it was bound to be a profitable venture.

When we entered the room, chaos ensued. Staggered verses of 'Hi, Mrs. Melissa,' filled the air followed a series of hip crushing hugs from Alisha, Marques, Jamal and Tyrone. Miguel waved from where he was clearing the breakfast dishes. Jacob watched from across the room, curious but shy of the two big girls I'd brought with me. Keshon, the tireless wannabe Echo, fired questions faster than I could answer.

"What's they names? How old are them? Do they eat lobster?"

I introduced the girls and told Keshon to ask his questions to Emma and Mouse himself.

"Do you eat lobster?"

Mouse shook her head. Emma said, "No."

"Do you eat fish?"

Mouse made a face. Emma said, "Sometimes."

"Do you eat shrimp?

"We eat chicken," said Emma, cutting to the chase.

"Me, too," said Tyrone, who had been listening to Keshon's interrogation. A bunch of the other kids said they liked chicken, too. Common ground in poultry. Who would have guessed it?

We stayed for the Pledge of Allegiance and three cups of Kool-aid before leaving them to their day. On our way home we shared an interesting discussion about what they observed. Why did almost all those kids have dark skin? Why did they eat breakfast at school? It was a version of similar talks we'd had before about poverty and the inequities that still persist between the races. We dipped our toes into American history, slavery, emancipation, and how public education is funded. It was an amazing discussion peppered with exclamations of, "But that's not fair," from both girls. (Grade-schoolers are amazing injustice detectors.) It is a topic we've visited before and will again, though probably not the same way, with the taste of some of the best Kool-aid on the planet still on our lips. That can only happen once.

Ready, Set, Grade One!

"I expect you all to get five stars today. Remember, you're going to be in first grade soon and first graders know how to control their voices, control their bodies and work hard."

Jamal's hand shoots into the air. He looks worried.

"You have a question?"

"Yeah. Will you be coming with us to first grade? 'Cause we don't even know where the room is."

One Step Forward, One Step Back

***all names are changed except my own***

I knew from the moment I met Tyrone that he was slippery. For one, the child could barely stay in a chair. Five seconds was all he needed to toss his pencil skyward, crawl under the desk to fetch it and, en route, untie his neighbour's shoes. Perceptive, charming, happy and infuriating: all these things were Tyrone. Unfortunately 'literate' did not rank among them.

Now you may be thinking, he's five: since when is reading an expectation at such an age? It is and it isn't. No one expects the average kindergartener to be reading Harry Potter, but after nine months of being drilled on the alphabet and each letter's respective sound, most can decode a three-letter word that follows the basic phonemic rules. While I suspected Tyrone was still struggling, I couldn't be sure. Were his inaccurate responses due to inattention? Impulsivity? Poor phonemic awareness? Impaired memory? All of the above? Lucky for both of us, my exams finished last week and I had a sudden influx of something more precious than gold: time. I offered to work with Tyrone one-on-one to which the classroom teacher agreed. This moved Tyrone from Tier 2 up to Tier 3 intervention: one step closer to special education.

During our first session I quizzed Tyrone on his letter names and sounds. His score: 10 out of 26. I was stunned. How was this possible? I suspected difficulties, but nothing this tragic. He'd almost slipped through my fingers. Almost. When Mouse was one-year-old she nearly fell out a window at the Chateau de Chillon. I'd been sitting beside her at the time and had looked away. Clearly there was a grave difference between potential illiteracy and that moment, but they shared a similar element: my own culpability. Mouse didn't fall; neither did Tyrone. My judgement, however, would be honed forever by both incidents.

Tyrone and I have had three sessions and already he's showing improvement. We'll continue until next Wednesday when I'll have to bid all my Echo's good-bye. It will be a tough day.

Tiers and Tears

I lost a student yesterday in the best way possible: he didn't need me anymore. According to his classroom teacher, Jacob's DIBELS scores were well into the safety zone meaning he no longer needed Tier 2 intervention: me. When we broke the news to him, his eyes got shiny and full.

"But I still want to come with you."

I said he could come one last time and his eyes cleared. Minutes later, quite on purpose, Jacob scrawled the worst letters of his kindergarten life into his Fundations workbook. I could hardly believe my eyes. He was trying to throw the game, wielding the only power he had left. The thing of it was, it was too late. He couldn't fool anyone. He'd been writing clearly and reading for weeks. The poor kid had mistaken his victory parade for overtime: his last chance to prove me wrong.

When we got back to class I gave him his workbook and a certificate I had made. "I'm really going to miss you, Jacob."

"Me, too." He gave me a hip-crushing hug and headed for his cubby to put away his things. From across the room I watched him wipe his eyes.

On my way out of class he hugged me twice more.

Damn.

Off Task

"Mrs. Melissa?"

Marques calls out to me from his seat. The rest of the Echos are busy writing their capital C's.

"Marques, where is your hand supposed to be?"

"Oh!" He raises his hand.

"Yes, Marques."

"Can you eat your necklace?"

"Nope."

"Ah, man! That's too bad." He looks truly disappointed for me. I wonder if he would have asked for a bite if I'd said yes.

"Back to work now, Marques."

Sticker-palooza Part 2

Missed Sticker-palooza Part 1? Read it here.

I arrive the next day forewarned and forearmed, an arsenal of recognition stickers at my hip, ready to reward hard work and acceptable behavior with a flick of my wrist. Channel yourself back to your kindergarten years and you can imagine the anticipation this created. Alisha is more wide-eyed than usual. It is at this moment when I realize that this could go either way: success would bring elation; failure, devastation. I take a deep breath and signal Alisha to do the same. We'd chatted before class. She knew what she needed to do.

"T, top, /t/." I start the echos off with a phonics review, flashing cue cards as I go. Everyone stays on task. I figured they might. This part's easy. We finish off with a circuit of stickers on their incentive card. When Jamal raises his hand to ask a question he gets a sticker, too. My sense of fairness makes me want to recognize all of them, not just Alisha. Suddenly the rest of them are raising their hands, too. Alisha is shaking in anticipation. I call on her earlier than I might have otherwise, hoping to bolster her success and lessen her anxiety. It seems to help. She smiles down at her card as she counts her stickers.

A half hour later they've nearly drained me of ammo, and Alisha's reached her limit. The crayon box is out of reach when she bellows, "I want a crayon." Tears are in her voice. I don't react, instead continuing to work with Tyrone on his letter 'b' formation. A second later I hear a sweeter version of Alisha's voice, still tight with tears. "Miguel, can I have the crayons, please." I stop what I'm doing and slap a sticker on her card. "Great words, Alisha." She wipes her eyes and smiles. Her card's almost full.

I'd say the process was a success in many ways. I was consistent in my recognition and clear about what I was looking for. I also got some important information: given the right circumstances, Alisha can reign herself in and Tyrone and Marques can stay in their chairs. There were, however, a couple fatal flaws:

1. This was clearly not sustainable. Eventually stickers would loose their effectiveness, not just on Alisha, but everyone.
2. Were they developing self-awareness and self control? Yes and no. Jamal, who raised his hand to ask an on-topic question got appropriate feedback. On the other hand, Marques, who raised his hand just to get a sticker, had found a loophole I hadn't anticipated. Some kids are just too smart for their own good.
3. Would they repeat this behavior in other environments without the presence of reinforcement? Perhaps, but not likely due to this single session.

I suspect, as usual, I learned more than they did. Clearly they could control themselves. The question was how to set up a sustainable environment where they could work toward their success without draining the Midwestern Sticker Reserves. Hmm... Stay tuned.

Sticker-palooza Part 1

Alisha was back at school by Thursday, February 11th. She had only missed one day, but somehow she had regressed a few months. "I WANT A GREEN CRAYON!", "WHY DOES HE GET TO BE LINE LEADER?" and "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" burst from her lips at the least provocation. She remembered who we all were. She even remembered her letters and their respective sounds. But her manners, her patience, and her smile were MIA.

This past Tuesday was a particularly bad session. Alisha was in tears more than half the time. A brown dry-erase marker appeared to be the trigger. Part of the Fundations program has the kids writing their letters on individual white boards with guidelines. Alisha wanted to write her l, k, and h in brown, but Miguel already had it. From that moment on she was inconsolable.

"If you really want the brown, Alisha, you may need to wait until Miguel is done."

"I don't want to wait." Her big, almost black eyes glared at me from between her braids.

I shrugged and moved on down the row of desks, giving the others stamps on their cards for their beautifully formed letters. Alisha wailed, picked up her red marker and got work. Her letters were lovely and I told her so as I added a stamp to her card. She grunted through her tears, refusing to look at me.

I left the Echos that day a tad confused. Why had Alisha regressed so much? Whatever the reason, it was getting far too disruptive. Was I unwittingly encouraging her? Did something happen at home? She had always seemed a tad immature for age five, but at what point does a child's emotional turmoil cross the line and become something requiring special intervention?

It was time to call in the troops. I spoke to the classroom teacher, the amazing classroom assistant, and three of my professors. I needed to know a few things before I could proceed:

1. Did Alisha have a diagnosed behavioral or emotional disability? If so, I would need to see her Individualized Education Plan.
2. Was there any recent turmoil at home that might be contributing to her behavior?
3. Was there a change in her behavior in the classroom, as well, or only with me?
4. Was there anything I was doing that encouraged her outbursts?
5. Is this something that Alisha is capable of controlling?

For obvious reasons, I can't share some of the details I uncovered. Regardless, I entered the school yesterday armed and ready. It was Sticker-palooza Day with the Baby Echos. If Alisha was able to control her emotional outbursts, today would be the day.

Boy-oh-boys!

Today I was the only female during my session with the Echos. Alisha was absent, whether due to snow or the sniffles I still don't know. That left me with five boys. When I arrived in their classroom at 12:15 they were still eating lunch. Miguel saw me first and waved from his seat. A friend at his table, Keshon, leaped to his feet to give me a hug.

"Do I get to come with you today?" he asked. Where did he learn to bat his eyelashes like that? I wondered.

"Keshon, you need to stop asking, Buddy. You know I don't get to choose. I'd take you if I could, but we're out of luck."

"Aw, man."

I love that needing a tutor in kindergarden is viewed as a treat.

The Echos and I have come a long way since the first week of November. They've learned over half the alphabet phonetically; I've learned that pee breaks need to come before the lesson. Actually, I would wager I've learned a lot more than they have. For what it's worth, here are a few pearls of wisdom for anyone out there who work with small groups made up of primarily 5-year old testosterone factories:

1. Time is precious, especially if you get only 30 minutes twice per week. This requires structure in both the lesson plan and the behaviour management plan. Thanks to Fundations, the lesson plan is done for me.
2. In our group, we work hard. Hard work earns praise, both verbal and, in a more 'visible' sense, stamps on a incentive card. (There are 25 squares on each card to be filled with stickers or stamps. Hot air balloons and high-five handprints are a real hit.) Our session usually requires them to complete four tasks. They earn a stamp for each.
3. Hard work means we have to control our voices and bodies. If you control your body and voice for the session, you get an extra stamp. If an Echo can't keep their bottom in the seat, I break out my pencil and draw their attention to it. That is their warning.
4. If, after a warning, they don't settle down, I place a check mark on their incentive card where their next stamp would go. This means they cannot earn another stamp until they model appropriate behaviour. Usually this step is enough to get the offender back in line. I erase the check mark once they are back to work.
5. Occasionally an Echo drifts back to the problem behaviour. In this instance, there is no longer a warning and the check mark returns.
6. If this still has no effect, a second check mark is added. This means that they must 'flip a card' in the main classroom which has consequences determined by the classroom teacher. This is devastating as it not only means less play time, but also a note home. I've done this once. Poor Tyrone. He's behaved better ever since.
7. When an Echo's incentive card is full (this takes 25 stickers or stamps and two to four weeks, depending on the kid) they get to bring it home with a 'secret' note from me. I'm proud to say that they are beginning to read them themselves, so the secret is out. They also get to choose a new incentive card. The current favourite has an owl on it that bears a striking resemblance to Baby Echo, the finger puppet that serves as a teaching aid in Fundations.

I am amazed how effective this structure is, though I find I'm tweaking it regularly. They're learning and I'm learning. Keeping up is half the battle. My Echos earned all their stamps today. Way to go, boys!

Still Growing

Tuesday was the first session for the Echos and me since the holidays. Once they were all seated, Marques looked up at me and said, "Mrs. Melissa, you grew over the holidays!"

The other Echos chimed in their agreement. "Yeah, you grew!"

I what?

"You mean wider?"

"No. Bigger." Marques stood and held his arms over his head.

Oh, thank goodness. "I don't think I'm growing any more, kiddos."

"Sure you be growing," said Tyrone. "Every year you have a birthday and every year you grow. That's just the way it goes."

The kid had a point.

Stepping out of the woods.

It's been six weeks since the Baby Echos and I have been together. I've finally stopped calling Jamal, 'Miguel.' Considering Miguel is Hispanic and Jamal is African American, this should have been a no-brainer. The others have settled into their names quite nicely, too. Marques is my 'mover and shaker.' He has yet to pass a half hour in my presence without rolling on the floor. Alisha, the only girl, is my emotional time bomb. Last week she came into class and said, "Today, I'm not going to throw a fit." I've never called her teary outbursts 'fits' but apparently someone has. Miguel is my anti-Alisha, so quiet I must make a conscious effort to ensure he's not forgotten. When the rest of the crew get too loud, it's Miguel who covers his ears. Jacob routinely asks to come home with me. "But Jacob, for all you know I live in a cave," I said, the first time he asked. His eyes lit up, "You live in a cave?" He's asked every day since. Tyrone will do anything for a laugh, even if it gets him in trouble, and Jamal is the perfect audience, laughing and cheering the others on, lesson plan be damned. They could drive a person crazy if they weren't so adorable.

I was signing out after a particularly rowdy session when the classroom teacher stopped to talk to me. "I wanted you to know that all of your kids are showing improvement." She went on to explain that the six are retested every week to two weeks on their letter sound recognition using a special monitoring system called DIBELS.

"All of them had scores that showed they were at risk for reading failure back in October. They're all out of the woods now."

I left that day with a smile on my face a bit bigger than usual. We've all made progress. Go figure.

What's in a name

The classroom teacher has pointed out my students who are scattered all over the room: five boys, one girl. Miguel, Tyrone, Jamal, Marques, Jacob, and Alisha. Try as I might, I can't keep the boys straight. I hate the fact that I fall under the white man stereotype of not being able to tell African Americans apart. They are all unique. I can see that. But still their names shuffle through my mind like the ball in a game of shells. If they would only stop moving.

Baby Echos

The school gives me six names, six children, all five years old, who need to learn to read. Their names aren't like mine, names from lands generations away, held close by years of oppression. But they are still kids, my kids. They prefer bumping fists to high fives. I show them I can learn. They show me they can, too. This is our story.