Mikey is at my side again. “Maestra, do you need help?” He loves to help me, especially if it means he can steer clear of schoolwork.
“No, thanks. Finish your math.” I briefly turn from the student I’m helping, making sure Mikey goes directly back to his table without stopping to fist-bump Samuel or surreptitiously bum a handful of Hot Cheetos from Dana. He wanders a bit before I corral him.
“Want some help with math?”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather work with a partner.” This is code for “I’ll copy the answers from a friend.” I shake my head and sit down beside him. “C’mon, let’s look at it.”
Mikey kicks the chair leg softly, then with more force. He looks up at me from under long lashes, gauging my reaction. When I don’t respond, he swings his foot in a wide arc, banging the desk leg and chair leg in a frantic rhythm. I let him bang a few times, but his frustration doesn’t subside and mine is rising. I look down at his tiny shoe — children’s size 12 at most — and remember that he’s a child. I take a deep breath, trying to decide whether to walk away, or push the issue. He needs to learn the math in front of him, but I wonder at the wisdom of forcing the matter today.
“Do two problems,” I suggest. “One with my help, and one without.” We bargain until he gives in, swayed by the promise that he can work with a friend when he’s finished with me.
He forages in his backpack for a pencil and a multiplication chart. I’m recognize the absurdity of teaching him long division when he can’t distinguish between the numbers 12 and 20, but I’m responsible for teaching him fifth grade math. With support, he gets through the two required problems before bouncing away to work with a knot of boys in the corner.
He’s calmer now, but in an hour we’ll repeat this scenario during reading.
I print phonics worksheets for my lowest reading group. They recognize most consonants, although J, H, X, and W still elude them. No high-scoring Scrabble words for this crowd, but they can sound out or recognize common sight words. They’re proud of themselves when they’re successful. Whole-class activities are a source of frustration, but in reading group they smile and high-five each other.
Not Mikey.
He begins enthusiastically, hoping daily that the secret of “b” and “d” will become clear to him. He excitedly shouts out the few words he recognizes – People! The! Go! – but can’t string together enough of them to make meaning. After ten minutes of staring at the page in vain, he shoves his chair back from the table and walks away. I let him go, and focus on the students who remain.
I know this is an error.
I finish reading group, and check the clock. Five minutes until lunchtime. If I can redirect Mikey, maybe he won’t head to the cafeteria explosively angry. Perhaps I won’t receive complaints from the lunch supervisors about overturned food trays, or grievances from any little girl with a ponytail he comes close enough to pull. In the afternoon, he will coast through science and PE without incident.
“Are you responsible enough to do me a big favor?” I ask Mikey softly.
He nods happily, standing straighter. Solemnly, I give him a folded, stapled paper to take to another teacher. Inside it reads, “Mikey needed a time-out. Please thank him profusely for bringing you this paper.” Mikey skips off happily, and the crisis is momentarily averted.
I haven’t solved the larger problem, and the knowledge of this gnaws at me. Of course he’s angry. He’s a fifth grader who can’t read or do simple math. Frankly, I’m livid as well. How did he get this far without intervention? His file should be fat with paperwork: test results, psychological workups, intervention strategies. It is slim, gaps in his learning unnoted.
We’ve failed him.
My anger is accompanied by guilt. Each time I let him walk away from an assignment, dodge reading group, or work with a partner, I’m failing him also. When I review the same sight words in the same way and expect different results, I fail him.
I arrange for him to be evaluated. In the meantime, I fill the gap with phonics worksheets, flash cards, and 2nd grade mathbooks. I chase him down, work with him even when neither of us feels like it, and praise his tiny gains profusely. Progress is slow. I often wonder if it’s too late to change Mikey’s path. Even as I push and pull him forward, I dream of the day we weave a net so tight that no more children fall through the cracks.
