It’s been a long day in the fifth grade, but I’ve finally wrangled everyone into chairs, working quietly in groups. Posters of the water cycle take shape under bright crayon strokes. I take advantage of the relative calm to call Sandra to the back table. Pulling a math workbook out of her cubby, she joins me. She is tiny and thin, her size belying her age. She smiles at me from under a fringe of dark bangs, her wide grin punctuated by bad teeth. Today we are working on adding numbers less than 10.
When Sandra came to my class, she was followed by a fat file that contained far more questions than answers. Her prior schooling was inconsistent at best, nearly non-existence at worst, which is how she got to fifth grade without being able to read or do math. She can write her name in giant scraggly letters, although the N is often backwards. She can write a handful of other words, recognize a few letters and, if today goes well, add.
“Four plus four,” I prompt.
“Ocho.”
“That’s right, eight! Write it on the line.”
Sandra is 11; a few years away from puberty, a few more years away from adulthood. I know little of her early childhood except that she lived on the streets as a nearly feral child until a relative rescued her. I don’t know if she is hindered only by lack of exposure to school or whether she carries layers of learning disabilities on top of layers of deprivation. I do know that these stolen moments are not enough for all that she needs.
“I don’t remember how to write eight.”
I draw an eight in the air with my finger. I grab her hand and draw eight in the air with her finger. We write rows of eights on a small whiteboard, chanting, “Eight, ocho, eight, ocho,” as we write.
I prompt her to keep working on the page of addition problems as I get up to check on the class. The workbook in front of her is a first grade math book, pilfered from the book room. I’m sure I’m breaking some rule by not teaching her grade-level material, but that would be an exercise in frustration for us both. As it is, when I return to Sandra she’s done a few problems, but appears to be stuck.
“Six plus two?” I ask.
“It’s eight. I don’t know how to write eight.”
I bite back a sigh, grab the marker and whiteboard and begin another row of eights with her. In a few months this child will be plunked down at a computer, given a Common Core assessment in which she is expected to read two passages, watch a short video and synthesize a response using all three sources. She will be expected to read and comprehend word problems and complete multi-step math problems to find solutions.
Sandra’s results on this test will be dismal and both she and I will be judged by these results. Our school, our principal and the district will be judged. Progress is measured by data; even hard work and a miracle will still not bring this child close to where any data will show growth. I know success in education has to be measured somehow, but no one will ask me if I taught an illiterate 11-year-old the alphabet.
We will all be found wanting.
Here are things that cannot be measured by a standardized test: Sandra smiles every day when she comes through the classroom door. She loves picture books, and can recognize the words the, is and an. She can write mama and papa and a handful of sight words.
She will learn to add and subtract, and will hopefully recognize the number eight consistently. She is learning English, and mimics not only my tone, but phrases I use. This means she moves me and her peers out of the way with,
“Excuse me, sweet child,” and greets me each day with, “Good morning, my love!” She showers me with drawings, stick figures of her and I wearing twin triangle dresses and holding stick hands, drawings onto which she has coerced the kinder of her friends to write “I love you teacher.”
Classmates, struggling readers themselves, often ask me, “Do you want me to read with Sandra?” Their small kindnesses toward her cannot be measured on a standardized test either.
Perhaps the future looks bleak for Sandra; maybe not. Maybe the collective effort of teachers and volunteers and relatives will be enough to push and pull her toward a future that is brighter than her past. Today progress along that path will be measured in baby steps, but I will know, and Sandra will know, that we are moving forward.
