A few years ago, while I was teaching in what was considered to be one of the most "inner city" schools in my small town in Kentucky, I had a student who taught me something I continue to reference each time I begin to write. To protect the innocent, we will call him Eric Michael. Eric Michael had autism, and his best friend in the class was cute little blonde boy we will call Devin Bunt. Devin was legally blind. While his comprehension of classroom material based on sound alone was somewhat uncanny, his likelihood of ever really noticing his best friend across a crowded room was slim to none. To encourage their socialization just the same, I sat the two boys next to each other in our closet-turned-classroom that may or may not have contained traces of asbestos that not even the most trendy shade of apple green paint could disguise. While most days resulted in the boys getting along and depending on each other to fill the void they both had when it came to friendships in their pre-labeled "rough" school, they did - on occasion - have their fourth grade spats. One day after Devin had pushed him to his limit, I saw Eric Michael furiously scratching something onto a scrap of paper he had torn from his folder. As Devin turned away for a moment, Eric Michael slapped the paper onto the desk of his new enemy and then retreated to pace in front of the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. Seizing my opportunity to snatch the piece of paper, I quietly chuckled to myself as I read, "I do not like you, Devin Bunt!" It was harsh. It was cruel. It was just what he wanted to say to cut to the deepest part of Devin's core. Sadly for him, it was for an audience who could not see.
While that day Eric Michael placed his rage on paper, other days he shared more positive thoughts. He wrote kind gratitude to his BFF for simply being his friend. He shared his math problems when he was successful and just needed someone to take a "look." He drew pictures and wrote poems, and never once received a reply. Eric Michael wrote. When no one was even looking, he put words of himself on paper. Sometimes he learned from what he penned. Sometimes he showed talent he didn't even know he had. Without a grade or even a confirmation of receipt, he JUST. KEPT. WRITING.
No longer in that school, I am now back in the middle school setting where I have spent eleven of my twelve years of teaching. I teach sixth grade children to write. Students often ask what I would do if I didn't teach writing. My response? I would...WRITE. "Those who can, do," I keep hearing in my head, and so...for those students, I am launching this blog to share about them....and about me....even if nobody's watching.
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