This past week working through Sherman Alexie’s The absolutely true story of a part-time Indian has dredged up some strange feelings and issues for me. A lot of our discussions have been gearing towards student empathy and personal connections to the text. Alexie’s novel has a plethora of relatable themes and issues that have been and are still prevalent in schools today. All this week I have been talking about ways to get students to open up and connect to these tough issues. I have been offering mediums and strategies to bring these very personal topics into discussion and get meaningful and open responses from my student. I have said things like “By creating the right atmosphere” and “Using journals and quick writes as a gateway.” The entire time however there was a small voice in the back of my head. It began very faintly, and at first I almost didn’t think it was even real, but sure enough as each day of discussion went on that voice got louder, and louder, and louder. I could never make out what it said; the ringing would just dig deeper and deeper into my ear until I finally heard it speak a single word.
BULLSHIT!
Pardon the profanity, but that was what it said, and deep down I knew why. I was bullied in grade school. Massively. I had a debilitating studder, I was overweight, and I was quick to tear up. From 4th through 8th grade I would spend lunch eating in the corner, recess playing behind a tree, and free period being as close to teacher as I could to avoid further torment. The hallways were the worse. They were no mans land and I was a lone allied solider in a field of Nazi Troopers.
The middle of sixth grade I ended up moving to a different school within the district, much like Arnold. I thought this was my chance for a new start. I had thinned out a little, my studder was somewhat under control, and after years of holding in tears through bruised ribs and welted arms I thought I could handle it. And then during my first week I tried to speak up during class. After skipping over the same word nearly a dozen times I heard a few kids snicker and I knew my hell had just started again. We moved one final time the summer before my freshman year of highschool, and I spent the remainder of my education buried in books to avoid further torment.
I am telling all this, because to expect a kid is going to openly connect and share this kind of information in front of most likely the very classmates that are causing this pain is insane and unreal. I would never have done that, and yet were devising plans to make our students do it? Maybe those years have just made a cynic out of me, but I don’t see it happening.
And that happy note will close those week. For those whom miss my usually verbose and frantic writing that had all the cheerful lovingness of a six week old puppy at 3am in the morning never fear, I am sure he will return next week.
