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- #169
Sadielady3
MyPTSD Pro
My third period class broke me to tears today. I was teaching them something new- substitution method for systems of equations. Most students struggle with it- I've seen that year after year. This class was really trying to get it though. They were genuinely trying to do the work. We were having a lot of trouble. One of the students very quietly unmuted her mic on Zoom and said that she's trying but she just doesn't get it. She apologized to me for being dumb. Then other students typed in the chat that they were sorry too. A few other students piped up on Zoom as well. Then there was silence.
Here's the thing. I am a special education math teacher. Although I accidentally became a math teacher, I did purposefully choose special education. I wanted to help students who have deep struggles. This has always been my purpose. It broke me to have the kids apologize to me for struggling. It's my purpose to help you with that struggle. These kids don't know me so they can't see my heart as clearly as my past students can. I never want my students to feel like they have to be successful with math on the first go. The only thing I ever ask is that they give me what they can and try. The math will come if you work at it. But if you came to me behind with your math skills (and so many of my students do), how can I ask you to do something hard well when you're missing skills and information? I consider students successful if, after our year together, they have learned something, even if that means they still didn't master grade level content. Screw those artificial standards and arbitrary timelines. You are my kids and I want you to love math and grow. I want you to leave my room better than you came to me in at least some way. I want you to have gained from the experiences in my room, not feel more shame and sadness because you couldn't be perfect.
I told the students as much once I regained my power of speech. I told them that they were my kids and would always be my kids, even long after they graduate. I told them that all I will ever ask is that they try and make progress. I told them that the struggle is a part of learning and that things aren't always going to be instant and easy. I told them that growth is painful but builds you to be more confident and better. I went on quite a little speech to them. I'm horrified to think that my students don't realize how I see them and what an honor I always consider it to be to walk with them, albeit for a very short time, on part of their academic journey.
I've never viewed any group of kids as just another class. Every class I've ever taught has been unique and holds a special place in my heart. I may not remember every kid's name that I've had over the years (I've had somewhere between 800 to 1000 students at this point) but I remember every class and some amazing moments from every single one of them. Sure, I've found satisfaction in watching students learn math and know I aided that process but I've really marveled at the students who learned some confidence over the year, discovering that they, in fact, can learn.
I had one young lady my very first year of teaching who all of a sudden got up and stood on top of her desk (which made me really nervous, for obvious reasons). She started yelling (more nervousness) about how she wants to go back to her middle school teacher and show him what she can do now. She yelled out about how she wants to show him that she's not dumb and that she can learn. And then she looked down at me from on high with tears streaking down her face and asked me when I figured out she could learn. When did I know that she was smart. I told her that I believe everyone can learn. She told me that it was thanks to me that she could learn now and I told her that I had very little to do with it. This young lady would come in during her lunch break to work on her math. She stayed after school. She asked questions. She took notes and did her homework. All I did was guide her when she needed support. I told her all of that. She changed drastically from the beginning of the year when she sat quietly in the corner away from everyone. By the end of the year, she was a leader in that classroom. When I tested her at the beginning of the year, she was performing at a first grade level in math. By the end of the year, she had moved up to fourth grade (an incredible gain for one year). She nearly passed the standardized state test too, something that her beginning of the year data said was impossible.
I don't remember what skills she mastered in math. I don't remember what math she still struggled with. Hell, she could have shown no improvement in her grade level performance test and I still would have considered her a success. She grew so much as a human being that year. So few people get to experience helping others like that. While I know she did the hard work here, it was such an honor and privilege to get to be on that journey with her. I am blessed to be able to do what I do for a living. I wish the kids could see my heart. They'd never worry about making a mistake again in my classroom.
Here's the thing. I am a special education math teacher. Although I accidentally became a math teacher, I did purposefully choose special education. I wanted to help students who have deep struggles. This has always been my purpose. It broke me to have the kids apologize to me for struggling. It's my purpose to help you with that struggle. These kids don't know me so they can't see my heart as clearly as my past students can. I never want my students to feel like they have to be successful with math on the first go. The only thing I ever ask is that they give me what they can and try. The math will come if you work at it. But if you came to me behind with your math skills (and so many of my students do), how can I ask you to do something hard well when you're missing skills and information? I consider students successful if, after our year together, they have learned something, even if that means they still didn't master grade level content. Screw those artificial standards and arbitrary timelines. You are my kids and I want you to love math and grow. I want you to leave my room better than you came to me in at least some way. I want you to have gained from the experiences in my room, not feel more shame and sadness because you couldn't be perfect.
I told the students as much once I regained my power of speech. I told them that they were my kids and would always be my kids, even long after they graduate. I told them that all I will ever ask is that they try and make progress. I told them that the struggle is a part of learning and that things aren't always going to be instant and easy. I told them that growth is painful but builds you to be more confident and better. I went on quite a little speech to them. I'm horrified to think that my students don't realize how I see them and what an honor I always consider it to be to walk with them, albeit for a very short time, on part of their academic journey.
I've never viewed any group of kids as just another class. Every class I've ever taught has been unique and holds a special place in my heart. I may not remember every kid's name that I've had over the years (I've had somewhere between 800 to 1000 students at this point) but I remember every class and some amazing moments from every single one of them. Sure, I've found satisfaction in watching students learn math and know I aided that process but I've really marveled at the students who learned some confidence over the year, discovering that they, in fact, can learn.
I had one young lady my very first year of teaching who all of a sudden got up and stood on top of her desk (which made me really nervous, for obvious reasons). She started yelling (more nervousness) about how she wants to go back to her middle school teacher and show him what she can do now. She yelled out about how she wants to show him that she's not dumb and that she can learn. And then she looked down at me from on high with tears streaking down her face and asked me when I figured out she could learn. When did I know that she was smart. I told her that I believe everyone can learn. She told me that it was thanks to me that she could learn now and I told her that I had very little to do with it. This young lady would come in during her lunch break to work on her math. She stayed after school. She asked questions. She took notes and did her homework. All I did was guide her when she needed support. I told her all of that. She changed drastically from the beginning of the year when she sat quietly in the corner away from everyone. By the end of the year, she was a leader in that classroom. When I tested her at the beginning of the year, she was performing at a first grade level in math. By the end of the year, she had moved up to fourth grade (an incredible gain for one year). She nearly passed the standardized state test too, something that her beginning of the year data said was impossible.
I don't remember what skills she mastered in math. I don't remember what math she still struggled with. Hell, she could have shown no improvement in her grade level performance test and I still would have considered her a success. She grew so much as a human being that year. So few people get to experience helping others like that. While I know she did the hard work here, it was such an honor and privilege to get to be on that journey with her. I am blessed to be able to do what I do for a living. I wish the kids could see my heart. They'd never worry about making a mistake again in my classroom.