Teacher Takes A Seat

Giving my students what they really need right now

There are certain moves I’ve got that all my students know — I suspect it’s the same with lots of teachers and their students. For example, when kids are talking when I’m giving instructions, I’ll saunter over (still speaking, of course), and stand right next to their desks. If that isn’t enough, I’ll then gently rest my hand on the desktop, moving even closer until they get the message and stop talking. I’m both a mom and a teacher, so I can get a kid’s attention from across the room with just a very pointed look. A simple slow shake of my head, “no” can stop a kid about to pull out his phone and make him pick up a pencil instead. They’re those nonverbal cues that often pack a far bigger punch than anything I could say.

One of my best and most effective cues is simply sitting down when I can’t get students’ attention to start class or bring everyone back together for discussion. Usually, one or two students will notice me plopping down on my stool and will do the job of getting everyone else to shut up for me. If the act of sitting doesn’t work right away, I turn on the theatrics: I’ll hunch over and sigh in defeat, start to examine my nails in boredom, even look back at the clock as if I can’t believe how much time is being wasted. Almost 100 percent of the time, my antics win out, and students will settle in quickly to keep me from feeling so sad (at least, that’s what I tell myself).

Lately, however, my nonverbal cues aren’t cutting it. In fact, even my verbal cues are falling on deaf ears as students just can’t seem to get it together and “do school.” Whether it’s loud, never-ending conversations or students unabashedly scrolling on their phones, learning seems to have taken a solid back seat (is there a back back seat? If so, that’s actually where the learning is — it might even be in the trunk). These past few weeks, students will sometimes even just politely say, “no, thank you” when I’m handing out work. They aren’t rude or intentionally hurtful in doing so, they just tell me that they aren’t in the mood and that maybe they’ll do it later.

To be clear, I teach at an alternative school, and I work with a population of students who are labeled “at-risk” for lots of reasons. Sometimes these reasons recede into the background, and the classes I lead look and feel almost identical to the ones I taught in legacy classrooms: students all alert and tuned in, phones away, pencils scratching on paper as they move through the curriculum I’ve carefully prepared for them. Other days, someone walking into my classroom might be dismayed to see students who look entirely checked-out, not a single student doing any real classwork at all.

This has admittedly been a tough adjustment for me to make, and it’s one that I still struggle with. As a teacher who for years prided myself on my classroom management, my knee-jerk reaction to students opting out is to push them and prod them and scold them and pressure them to do the work in front of them. What’s more, it’s really hard not to take their decisions personally — I spend a lot of time designing and writing curriculum, so their “no, thank you” very often feels more like a “f**k you” in the moment. It makes me want to yell at them, to kick them out, and to call their parents.

The other day, I was thrilled to see a student in class who hadn’t attended school for a few weeks. But as soon as things got started, she put her head down and went to sleep. I gently woke her as I moved around the room, passing out the work for the hour, and asked if she was okay. She said yes, but then put her head back down as I moved away. I gave her a few minutes, then came back with a pencil and sweetly offered it to her (another patented move of mine that very clearly means, “Here — do some work, hey?” without my having to say it). When her phone buzzed moments later, she stood, packed up her stuff, and walked out, leaving the work I had offered untouched on the table. As the door swung shut behind her, I found myself frustrated and annoyed with her lack of engagement — she skips school for weeks, then breezes in and out, doing nothing? Why should I waste my energy trying to help her when she clearly doesn’t care about graduating?

Later, in a staff meeting, I vented these thoughts to my friend, our school counselor. She let me complain, and then quietly let me know that this particular student has been homeless for the past month, couch-surfing with whichever friends she could. She left my class because the guy she’s staying with this week wanted to leave, and she had no other way of getting back to his house to sleep.

I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about skill-based standards and students being able to apply their content-area mastery in their “real lives.” But in all my academic focus, I think I’ve forgotten to take a moment to consider those real lives. What I’ve overlooked lately is that my students, just like everyone, need time and space to deal with their struggles and barriers before we can even get to academics. Expecting kids to just set aside their worries and stressors to do a worksheet I put on their desk sets us all up for failure. Even worse, doing so is incredibly disrespectful and will only hurt the relationships I’ve worked hard to build with students I care deeply about. I’ve been telling myself that I’m pushing them for their own good, when honestly, my feelings and actions have been driven by my desire to control the classroom and the students in it.

As we move into that dead zone between winter and spring breaks (always the longest part of the school year for me), I need to remember to exercise true patience with my students. While some of them might need that extra academic push from me, many likely just need me to step back and let them breathe a bit — in fact, school might be the only place where they can take that breath in a safe space.

For now, I might need to give my teacher side-eyes and pointed looks a break. Of all the teaching moves in my repertoire, the one that I need to practice the most right now is also the hardest for me to do: to step back, be present, and take a quiet, gentle seat.

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