Approximately six years ago, I met a young man that I'll call "John." I had been entrusted with one (just one) honors English 1 class, and I was very excited to have a group of so-called non-problem children. I mean, let's be honest. The students that we usually promote to advanced courses fit a profile: active learners, no behavioral issues, well-supported by family, great SRI scores, does well on state tests, etc., etc., etc. I knew I would be able to have at least one class of perfect little students, and I would be able to save my energy for my regular and co-taught classes.
This class lived up to my expectation. I let them know from the beginning that this was my first time teaching the best and brightest which meant that I would need their feedback. I tried my best to focus the class more on active learning than total points. In the end, I learned beside a group of students who were thirsty to try new activities and learn as much as they could. They gave me constant feedback that I then used to plan new, more creative lessons. I was incredibly sad to see them move on to the grade level.
However, throughout that time frame, there was one young man that did not do as well on organized class activities, even while his personality shined outside of class activities. Each day, he would come to class and almost pick a (playful) fight. We eventually settled upon a ranking system that he used to gauge that day's relationship status. On bad days, I was "31 out of 32" of his best teachers ever (there was always 1 person worse than me). On good day, I made it to number 2 (one teacher always beat me out for favorite). Throughout the school year, I grew to love him. I hoped that he felt the same about me, but I wasn't always sure. We ended the year with him passing my class, and I was happy to have known him.
It wasn't until the following year that I was something so significant that it would have changed the way that I taught him. I was told that all while I had John in class, he was struggling with the fact that his father was on trial for murder and that he was finally sentenced to multiple years in prison. I was shocked! I mean, this was a clean-cute white kid from an affluent family. John dressed nicely, spoke well, and acted as if all was right with the world. His middle school grades were A's and B's, so his underperformance stumped me significantly. However, with this information, I now understood him a bit better.
From this relationship, I learned that all stereotypes, even the positive ones, can impede our ability to see the needs of our students. Because I made assumptions about John based upon my perceptions of his "okay-ness." That perception was rooted from his ability to fit into a stereotype. However, I did not fully see his needs because I assumed that he was, and would be, alright. His lack of success was his own fault, and was not a result of circumstances outside of his control. John's facade finally collapsed towards the end of his sophomore, and we were all forced to acknowledge that he needed the help of all of us if he hoped to succeed. We assembled a team around him, but I often think about how much further along he would have been if we had not been so blind to his needs.
The blessing in all of this is that John is okay. He still has some struggles, but he and his mother have now partnered with me to speak to others about their story and the required supports we should put in place for all students. They are both still in my life, and I'm proud to say that they are like family to me. Most importantly, they are constant reminders that I must SEE my students individually. When I fall into the stereotype trap that ALL human beings fall into, I have a tangible example of why I should be ever vigilant. For students, it is a matter of life and death, failure and success.
