At JRA, our staff talks about philosophy. We talk about it a lot. A school without a philosophy is an institution untethered; without a strong philosophy, staff are left to make it up as they go, and bad decisions lead down that path. By having a guiding philosophy, we strive to have a culture that is consistent and known, that provides a backboard off which we bounce all our decisions. Re-Ed has at its heart the fact that the child is at the center of an ecology, which must adjust to meet the needs of the child. Dr. Nicholas Hobbs’ twelve principles of Re-Ed can be found on our website and we revisit them often, devoting part of our weekly staff meeting to this. Why are we doing what we’re doing? How does that fit into the twelve principles? Why did we make THIS decision, rather than that one? This summer I’d like to let you into our thinking, one principle at a time. So explore with me the first principle:
Life is to be lived now, not in the past, and lived in the future only as a present challenge.
The first principle may seem easy, but nothing ever feels easy with our kids. It’s not just a simple carpe diem, or seize the day. A large number of our students have suffered trauma of many kinds, some school-induced. Recent research makes it clear that trauma is held in the body and relived constantly. School flashbacks can happen with every lesson, whether it’s over reading, writing, math, testing, or simply getting out of the car.
“I can’t read that!” From my office I know that Ms Brooks is responding by covering most of the word, taking an escalating Aaron through that first syllable. Aaron has experienced years of reading failure, but our reading teachers break reading down into its smallest components, phonemes, taking one sound at a time. Once students have mastered that, they go on to short words, tapping the sounds to take apart or put together a single word. Then longer words, then phrases, then sentences, first with cards, on to the white board, then paper. Ms Brooks or Ms Horvitz may give three parts review and one part new material. Then two and two. But it’s never too hard, and that’s the path to overcoming learned helplessness. We often take kids back academically until they are guaranteed success, and then move them ahead as quickly as they are able. “Oh. That’s Atlantic,” I hear Aaron say.
“I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m stupid!” Ian cries, hitting himself in the head with his book. I hear Mr. Laures talking softly to him. The math book flies into the hall. Ian runs to the calm and return room and throws himself on the couch. His teacher waits outside the door while he calms down. “Long division,” he says in answer to my inquiring look. After a few minutes, Mr. Laures talks to Ian, walking him through what led up to his outburst and helping him understand what we can do to help him to the other side. They decide to go see Mrs. Houser, who pulls kids for extra math tutoring on an as needed basis. The three of them huddle over Ian’s paper as she takes him through step by step. “Oh.” he says. “You have to bring that number down! I didn’t do that.”
“I’m not HAVING a birthday party!” Noah states emphatically. “Why?” Ms Barefoot inquires. Tears well up. “No one would come. No one has ever come,” he says. “I’ll come,” Angela says softly. “You will?” he asks. “Mom, can I have a birthday party with just Angela?” She smiles and says they’ll talk about it. He ends up inviting every child in the class—and every child goes. For many of them, it’s the first party they’ve been invited to.
While our students are haunted by their pasts, they also see the future as so much bigger than others see it. Many of our kids are what we call apocalyptic thinkers, with always and never forming a huge part of their vocabulary. Tasks seem larger than we can imagine. If asked how big the problem is, every single one is a ten. Showing your work on a math problem is the same level of stress as a broken leg. It’s no wonder school is an overwhelming and scary experience.
“I can’t get him out of the car, again,” a mom says as she looks in my office. Mr. Pipkins and Mr. Williams head out to talk to him. Five minutes later the three of them walk in, laughing about something one of them said. Getting through the door can be terrifying for this child and many others; once he’s in the building, he’s generally okay. But that first terrifying step feels like walking through a swamp of crocodiles, every single day.
“I can’t read that! It’s too long!” Sophie howls in my office. “It would take HOURS and I’m not going to do it!” I take her book. The passage is two pages long. She’s a good reader and it would take her all of five minutes. “How about if I read the first paragraph?” I ask. She shoves the book at me, and I read it to her. “Now you read the next sentence,” I say. She does and keeps on reading. Suddenly she remembers and thrusts the book back at me. “Hey! It’s your turn.” I read the next paragraph and give it back to her. This time she finishes it. I was wrong; it took four minutes.
“I’ll NEVER finish all this!” Avery is crying that he doesn’t want to do his work, he wants to play. I hear Ms Head state kindly but firmly, “First this sheet. Then you play.” I hear “first, then” statements from every classroom as teachers guide their students through a dreaded task to a preferred activity. “Really?” Avery sniffles. “Just this sheet?” “Just that sheet,” Ms Head assures him.
When the future and the past loom so large, there’s not much room for the present. Being in the moment, focusing on the demands of now, is a skill that must be taught. Now is what matters: simply stepping out of the car, reading the first sentence, lining up the problem on the math paper, tapping a three letter word. Dr. Hobbs points out that we don’t wait for a therapeutic hour to help a child learn the skills of life and learning. And at any rate, we are not therapists delving into the past. We’ll leave that for others. Our focus is now, making every moment count.
Life is to be lived now, not in the past, and lived in the future only as a present challenge.
