How

When I was in the 2nd grade, our class got in trouble on the playground, and our teacher had us come inside and write an essay on how we would act the next day. She was mad. And she was not from North Carolina. 

She was from somewhere up north where they wore heavy coats and had a different way of saying things and said big words like “consequences” and told us a toboggan was a sled, not a hat. Mind blown. She didn’t start the year with us but we had too many people in the second grade that year, so some kids from each 2nd grade class were chosen to be in her class once the school year was underway.

I had been in Ms. Eaton’s 2/3 combination class. She was the kind of teacher you wanted. The kind of teacher who wore shoes that clicked on the floor and smiled when she saw you – might even hug you – and smelled of sweet perfume. Ms. Eaton had been teaching a long time. Her room felt like a home and you just knew you were off to brilliant things because you had the privilege of being in her class. Not only did you get the warmth of Ms. Eaton, you also got to mix and mingle with 3rd graders. I felt like I was in her class due to my outstanding 1st grade achievements. It was an earned spot.

The day the switch happened I was out sick. I kind of knew there was going to be a change at some point, but I was in shock when I came back from a sick day, looking forward to a hug from Ms. Eaton, and instead was told my desk and my things were in another room. With the Not From North Carolina lady. And there were people in there that were not only from Ms. Eaton’s class but also from ALL the second-grade classes, which totally freaked me out because I liked order and control and things all in a row. 

In her defense, it’s not easy to waltz in and take over a class after the year has started. Also in her defense, I love plenty of people who are not from North Carolina. But when I was 9, I lived in Durham, North Carolina. I had never been on an airplane or on a vacation. I had never even been to the beach. I played on Spruce Drive with the same people I rode the bus with. My dad worked five days a week in the local textile industry, my mom stayed at home, and my sister went to Carrington Junior High about 500 feet from my elementary school. So, my world was small and predictable and I really liked it that way.  

I took school seriously, like it was my job. Kind of the way I take my job seriously now because you know, it’s my job. I was organized and always the top reader (until 5th grade but that’s another story). I knew my math and showed my work and always, always, always checked my division problems backwards by multiplying. When I didn’t ride bikes or play in the woods, I would read the encyclopedias to learn about planets and lightning and caterpillars and why things were the way they were.

So on this particular day, when I sat in a desk a tiny bit sweaty and with a runny nose from running outside in the cold, I wanted to make sure my essay was fabulous and sparkly, like all the other work I did. The only problem was I didn’t know how to write an essay. I didn’t even know what it was. And I even remember writing S.A. at the top of my paper because I didn’t know how to spell it. 

You see, we had never been taught to write.  

Maybe a story here or there but certainly nothing like a persuasive essay or even remotely informational. Trying to write an essay on what I would do better tomorrow may as well have been a dissertation assignment. 

I am sure our work was terrible and our Not From North Carolina teacher was even more disappointed at the end of that than we were. We never talked about that essay that I can remember and I know we didn’t get a chance to make it better. So, my message here is important… if you have kids who cannot write, teach them how.

Remember, I was 9. I wanted to do a good job at my job of school. I wanted her to love us the way Ms. Eaton did. I wanted to make sure I didn’t just hit the mark but exceeded it. But I didn’t know how. 

HOW.   

If your students are struggling with something, seriously think about how you taught it. HOW.

If you didn’t teach it, then start there. For real. Let go of the “They should know this” and “Why don’t they know this?!” stuff and dig into the HOW. How can you help them figure it out? How can you break it down in small steps and scaffold it? If you did teach it, consider coming at it a different way. 

We grew on Ms. Not From North Carolina and she grew on us.

But don’t be remembered for what you didn’t do.