Teachable Moments

A catchphrase in education, often an excuse for diverting from the plans that are supposed to be the law and order of classrooms (in my school, at least). Teachable moments are times that present themselves without warning or preparation, a chance for a teacher to divulge his or her priceless knowledge to some unsuspecting child who has asked a golden question, a question that opens the floodgates for the wisdom of the elder. Early in my Teach For America experience, the people training us spoke about these times as if they were more valuable than gold, and yet still manage to happen at least once a week.

To be honest, the only teachable moment that I ever really remember is when one of my kids asked me what a sea urchin was. And the only reason it was a teachable moment in the first place is because my photographic memory (which never fails to deliver) remembers a book from my childhood that I knew was in my classroom library in the "Fun Books" bin. Not exactly the most glamorous kind of teachable moment.

Certainly there have been more, because I do recall times when I left work feeling as if I had capitalized on some invisible opportunity to give out a little nugget of information that my students otherwise would not have gotten. But in my experience, I have been the recipient of teachable moments more often than my students have.

One happened on Friday. And it was probably one of the most dynamic ones yet.

As I have mentioned a few times this year, one of the students in my class has VERY severe ADHD. It's at its worst after lunch and recess, probably because of all the movement and transition. He swings his arms, jumps over desks, mashes pencils into the floor... for awhile I was convinced that he was the devil reincarnated, sent to destroy any ounce of desire I had to continue teaching the next day. I changed my mind slowly and with much hesitation. By now, I've realized that he can't help it and that he has an unfortunate imbalance of something that makes him different. He needs something else. I haven't figured out just what that something else is yet, but I have figured out some things that can work for him. Sometimes.

One strategy I've reverted to is having him walk with me in the hall instead of in line with his classmates. He's there to pick out the kids who are doing a good job in the hallway, a task that keeps his focus enough to prevent him from windmilling his arms and legs violently as he walks. I was pacing next to him, one arm around his shoulders as he pointed out kids who were showing good behavior. It was a particularly... challenging day for him.

"Jaelyn," I started. "Did you take your medicine today?"

"A little bit," he said, not looking. "But that medicine don't work anymore." He frowned, crossed his arms, and stopped walking. Meanwhile, his peers were puffing out their chests and holding their breath dramatically, trying to get chosen for best hall-walker. I have the dumbest rewards.

"Well maybe you need to talk to your mom about it." For my sake. I thought it selfishly. I hate when I think those things. "We want you to be able to do well in school." We also want you to be able to walk in a line without acting spastic.

He looked right at me then. Right in my eyes. When six-year-olds look you in the eyes, REALLY look at you in the eyes... I can't even explain it. They have that saying about things coming from the mouths of babes... I'm convinced they're talking about six-year-olds when they're talking about the mouths of babes.

"It's so hard for me to be good."

He didn't turn his gaze right away. He held it just a little bit longer. Then, it broke.

"Sean's doing a nice job... Emmanuel, too."

Right there it was. My failure as an adult to acknowledge that there was a legitimate thing holding him back, something that I could not and would not ever understand. I had ignored it. I brushed it off as an excuse he was making, an act he was putting on so that he could play instead of work. There he was, a first-grader, capitalizing on a teachable moment he probably couldn't even recognize.

I felt guilty the rest of the day.