“Precious, you need to pick a different book. This one’s above your reading level.”
I hate turning students away from books. On every measure I’ve given Isaac though, he tests at 2nd grade level. He wants to read a 4th grade book, one of a series pitting different species of animals against each other in theoretical face-offs.
Fifth grade is off to a rough start. Isaac has already repeated a grade. He speaks to me primarily in Spanish unless reminded otherwise. His writing is a unwieldy salad of letters, a mix of English and Spanish phonics and almost no conventional spelling. Still, he wants this book. With so many academic strikes against him, I don’t want to add more failure.
The pleading look on his face stops me. “It’s Polar Bear Versus Grizzly Bear,” he explains. “Robbie read it, but he won’t tell me who wins.”
Of course I dream of moments like these – students begging to read books. Yet I know he can no more read that book than I can read the tomes of Socrates in the original Greek.
“Please?”
I suggest that he read with a friend, an idea he quickly rejects. I’m certain he doesn’t want anyone else to know he struggles with reading. After all, he is known in the classroom for being the fastest at any math task. Students seek his help during math time, and one of the few legible sentences he has written this year is “I am a math genius.” If math tests didn’t require so much reading, he’d consistently have one of the highest scores in the class.
I hesitantly let him read the book. He flips through the pages too quickly, and goes to the computer to take a test on the content. He fails, as I knew he would. I ask him who would win – the grizzly bear or the polar bear. He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I read it too fast,” he mumbles, looking at his feet.
He shuffles back to his desk to reread the book. I watch him from across the room. Tall and lanky, Isaac still has the awkwardness of a child. He hasn’t grown into his feet, and he moves utterly without grace. He frequently teases me about my tiny stature, but is equally quick to hand me objects I can’t reach or staple something high up on the wall. “Con permiso, Maestra,” he’ll say, gently moving me aside to reach into high cupboards or tape posters on bulletin boards. He’s gentlemanly about it, and at those moments I can see a glimpse of the man he will become — kind, hard-working, and eager to lend a hand. Right now, however, it’s painfully clear that he is a giant child, bowed by failure. He folds himself into his chair to attack the book again.
He reads and retests several times throughout the week, finally passing the quiz with 60%. I’m surprised when he reappears at my desk. “Maestra, will you delete the quiz, so I can retake it?”
“Sweetheart, you passed it.”
He shakes his head. “You tell us not to accept mediocrity. I want a higher score.” Again I see a flash of the man he will one day become. I pray he can hold onto this dogged determination, despite a path already peppered with obstacles.
I give him a high-five. “Would you like me to read the book with you?”
He shakes his head no, then changes his mind and nods. Flashes of embarrassment and relief cross his face.
It takes us a week to finish, a few stolen moments at a time. The going gets easier when he finally recognizes the word “bear” on sight. Isaac is fascinated to learn that a polar bear can grow ten feet tall, and points out with glee that said bear is twice my height. He struggles mightily with the reading, and more than once I question my wisdom in letting him proceed. Everything I know about good teaching admonishes against setting a child up for failure, but everything I know about the human spirit tells me not to break his by telling him to give up.
Finally we finish. I’ve learned more about polar bears than I ever wanted to know, and Isaac proudly dashes to the computer to take the test again. This time he passes with 80%. He gently pats my head. “Thank you, Maestra.”
I want to tell him that life is exactly this hard, that sometimes the same challenges need to be met again and again before he triumphs, and that people will help him along the way. Instead, I send him to the bookshelf for a new book. Together we have so far to go, but for the moment, he is buoyed by victory.
