Thank You

There is a certain way that my young people say thank you that gets me. After one of them does it, I feel my heart click, stopping mid pump, and I get a small tender pain in my chest. Then my entire body warms and I cannot help but smile, tilt my head, and thank God for the great responsibility and possibility I have in my job.

This happened to me mid-week last week. Derek had a bad week with the Program. He was late, didn't show back up after an appointment, and in general had a poor attitude. I was immediately concerned when he got into an altercation with one of my young ladies, and put drywall mud in her hair. Now, the act alone was enough to make me boil a little bit, but I found myself more worried than anything because this was so out of character for Derek.

Before students are enrolled in YB, they have to participate in a ten-day orientation called Mental Toughness. During Mental Toughness, Derek was a star student. From day one, the entire staff was on board with Derek's admittance into the Program. He was shy, and when he spoke he would face down toward his shoes, but look up. It was among the most endearing and pitiful things I have seen in my time working with 16-24 year old young adults. It was apparent Derek valued this opportunity and was prepared to make the most of it. He was nice to his peers, was easy to get along with, and very complacently followed directions.

How you are raised very much sets a precedent for your ability to cope with the outside world. It decides if you were taught to persevere or crumble and if it was within your ability to rely on confident people around you, or grin and bear it. At the end of the calendar year Derek's world came apart a little bit. He was taught to grin and bear the pain, but as it happens with most of our young people, he could only contain his hurt for so long.

Derek began being defensive, tardy, disrespectful, and acted as if he literally had an inability to follow even the simplest direction (take your hat off). His nonchalant attitude made me realize that for the time being, my aspiration for Derek to succeed surpassed his own desire. It was time for a sit down.

After circling the issue with Derek, trying Socratically to make him come to his own realization, I finally let it out that the life he was living was simply not good enough and that Derek had shown us and himself that he was better. He was better than his immature attitude and behavior. He was better than rolling into work whenever he felt like it. He was better than rolling his eyes and pretending like he didn't care -- because I believe in him and know he believes in himself. After 45 minutes we both needed a break from the conversation so I talked to some other kids who came in for bus passes and other small needs.

When I went back to my office, Derek met me asking for a note for a service agency that needed confirmation of Derek's employment. I wrote the letter, asking confirmation question and let him read it before signing and sealing it. I wrote thoroughly of Derek's potential, work ethic, and level of respect. When I handed it back to him he took it, stood, started walking. He stopped mid-step looked back and said, "thank you Mrs. Frech, thank you". It was the tone of the second gratitude that let me know he didn't just mean about the letter. Heart click, body warm, eternal gratitude. Nothing is better than that thank you.

Changing the Statistics

When I left the classroom I knew I was not finished teaching young people, I just needed a different avenue to do it. While I look back on my two years in Teach for America, almost in regret for what MORE I could have done, I am hopeful that my current position offers me the opportunity to serve a new group of wandering young adults.

YouthBuild serves the students the school districts lost. I work with the most amazing group of 16-24 year olds who made a decision to get their lives on track. My young people devote themselves full time to GED course work, improving their community by rehabbing homes for low-income families, and developing themselves into tomorrow's leaders. While I have fewer "classroom management" headaches, my heart often feels heavy for the daily struggles my young people endure.

This is specifically about two young ladies who participated in YB with bellies growing, full of another life. One girl was a teen mom, she was about 10 weeks pregnant when she started with the Program. The other, who was having her second child, was previously a teen mom and was about 15 weeks when she started with the Program. Both girls had dropped out of high school, one had spent a significant time in jail, and neither really had a plan of what was supposed to "come next". While each of my young people face significant struggles, the obvious challenges of living in poverty were going to be exacerbated for these two young girls and their unborn children.

With every new student, I perform a pre-program interview. I want to know WHY they want this Program. Why is it important RIGHT now, HOW do you know you are ready. With these two young women, the answer was forcefully in front of me before they even spoke.

The statistics are stark:
- Children of teen parents are 50% more likely to repeat a grade and are less likely to graduate from high school than children of older parents

- Only 77% of children born to teen parents will receive a high school diploma compared to 89% of children born to older parents

- Children of teen mothers are more likely than those born to older mothers to experience adolescent childbearing, homelessness, juvenile delinquency, and incarceration

- Consistent contraceptive use is less likely among children of teen parents, who are more likely to be sexually active by age 14. As a result, these children are at higher risk of becoming teen parents themselves

- Though children of teen parents have more health problems than children born to older parents, they receive only half the level of care and treatment

(sources: Healthy Teen Network: www.healthyteennetwork.org The Parenting Project: www.parentingproject.org National Network for Childcare: www.nncc.org )

I am often the proud mama of my Program. I brag about my students intelligence, their ability to understand the world around them, and the heart that they put into their work. I explain that they are not just society's misfits, or the kids you see in a rap video, but young people looking for PURPOSE. I talk on end about their successes, small and large, and smile greatly when they THEY know they have accomplished their goals.

That being said, I may sound redundant when I say these girls were smart, but they were SMART - quick as a whip and different than others because they COULD have finished high school (let me qualify that by saying that my students were not always completely to blame for their departure from compulsory education). Jaime and Molly had common sense, they were problem solvers with great attitudes and a thirst for more. They were natural leaders, but not in the sense that I was. I command rooms because I am loud (my students say I sound like I am selling a car when I am teaching) and I demand respect with my no-nonsense tone. Jaime and Molly were quiet leaders, commanding their peers mostly by their attitudes, kindness, and sense that they just "got it". I admired their strength to WANT to do this Program (even when therewasnowayinHiamlettingyouupaladder CRAZY LADY) :-).

Most of my participants have a year to complete the Program, but Jaime and Molly did not have this luxury given that they had growing time bombs in them, ready to come once 37 weeks passed. We HAD to work fast, and these ladies DID. Molly and Jaime knew the chances smacking their kids in the face as soon as they were born. They KNEW that if they didn't get their GEDs their children were less likely to get their education, they KNEW if they didn't get their GEDs getting a job would be harder then ever, and they KNEW that living a life on food-stamps and K-TAPP wasn't going to be for them long term. Their drive to work and work well was inspiring to everyone around them.

BOTH Jaime and Molly earned their GEDs before their children were born. They changed the statistics for their children. They knew their children deserved a different life and it started with their education.

I worry some times that what we are doing here at YB is not enough. I struggle and worry if we are REALLY saving lives and a community. I want to know that I am living the life that was paved for me, to inspire the minds and lives of young people. When I think of Molly and Jaime, I am lucky to think that we were 100% successful in changing the statistics for their unborn children. I am lucky to know that their lives in a sense were saved. YouthBuild was a game-changer for Molly and Jaime and I got to watch it happen.

Why?

Those of us in my field get the question a lot, “why do you do what do you do”. While it is sometimes hard to verbalize reasons, I spend my time exactly how I want to spend my life. I teach because I believe educational inequity is our country’s biggest social issue. I teach because I believe poverty can be solved through education. I teach because I believe every child should have warm meals, a safe home, and a thirst for knowledge. While I do not teach traditionally anymore, my ability to direct the young people in YouthBuild will have a direct consequence on the outcome of their lives. I do what I do because if I didn’t, I would be allowing the cycle of poverty to continue in the United States. I do what I do because I like urban youth, and well based on what I have experienced, they are not for everyone.

When I get discouraged, down trodden, or unsure of my next day, I have to remember that this job is not about me. I am a small part of something bigger than myself and while there may be steps back, the steps forward are strides. Every GED earned, every student who learns to read, and every student who finished high school is a stride forward. Those strides have to be worth more then the stumbles.

My stories are about my kids; characters in my life that are constantly telling me to work another day to diminish poverty. They are individuals who have required me to stay in my position despite its uncertainty at times. Finally, I do what I do because this is my passion. When I look back, I want to have stood for something that matters, something that changed a generation, education can and will do just that.

Double Double Toil and Trouble..

Life and teaching is harder when there are two. Two identical faces in the same class. Two khaki jumpers with navy blue polos, black shoes, and braided heads of hair. It is hard with twins, at home or in the classroom, especially when those twins have the exact same schedule, same face, same height, matching voices, and same need to shine. My twin’s names were hardly different and each day they were dressed in identical outfits. They liked stirring the pot and were insanely boy crazy. Both had an inability to decipher the line between flirting and annoyance, and one thing was for sure, if both were in attendance a teacher’s life would not be boring.

Diana and Dea were quick as a whip. Before you knew it they had written a note, sent it across the room, told a secret to the person behind them, laughed about the contents of the note, and left another student highly frustrated. Their tactics were impressive really and my ability to dish out consequences was mild. Teachers rarely sound as serious as they need to when they go, “Diana...No Dea...No Diana, hands on the desk, pencil down.” The value often gets lost in the mix up with whom you are actually speaking.

The first year brought several phone calls home, multitudes of silent lunches, and I should have been named MVP wide receiver for the notes I intercepted by Christmas break. By spring, I was begging my administrator to separate these two enthusiastic young ladies.

Both Diana and Dea could read fluently. They flew past words students in grade levels ahead of them struggled with and breezed through books. Whenever we read out loud the two would fight over who would get to read next. While fluency was high, comprehension was low. This was their biggest struggle and the one hindrance that held them back from truly being proficient according to standardized tests. I also believed their constant need to one-up each other in class held them back from academic achievement and confidence that they could handle a bigger setting.

There were good days. The girls were people pleasers. They wanted to help and appreciated positive praise. Each girl liked having a job and appreciated the responsibility of being accountable to something. Especially if separated, they generally followed instruction, would always share what they could, and were never afraid to be the one with the speaking part during our drama section.

The problem was they acted as a pair. When picking on someone, or when being picked on they were absolutely grouped together. After I was on the receiving end of a punch from a boy, originally meant for Dea I decided something had to be done. We tried Dea out in a different classroom setting and the waters seemed to settle, for awhile.

Favorites

I’ve been waiting to share this story for a while and due to my long delay in writing, I suppose you have earned hearing about young D. I cannot come up with a completely new name for him because it would take away from his person-hood. Teachers are supposed to say they don’t have a favorite..that they have enjoyed each student that has walked through their door. Well for the record that is bull and I am here to tell you about one of my favorite students at Bishop Spaugh, D.

D’s mother was one was few to come see me during Spaugh’s Open House. Elated by the appearance of a parent, I quickly came to T’s side offering her my phone number, a supply list, and a tour around the classroom. T took one look at me and asked if I was a first year teacher. Hah! …Nope this is my SECOND year. She looked down almost disappointed and let me know that chances are D would make me cry, he has a habit of wearing down young teachers like myself.

Like most of my other stories, D was in my room of boys. He came in the first day with braids shooting straight out of his head and sat in the middle row, last seat, in the back. Constantly flailing his arms around and moving, D would rather be dancing, then anywhere else.

He was inspiring, obviously having a knowledge base beyond what his test scores revealed. He knew about science because he watched Discovery, would listen in Social Studies, and above anything else refused to take notes or read. In fact, D thought he literally couldn’t read, as in he thought he lacked the ability.

He was funny too, like constantly asking me if I knew was was, if I was considered a midget, and if I lived in the hood in a previous lifetime. By two months into the year, I was constantly involved in D’s life and knew that D trusted me to teach him what he hadn’t learned yet, that he could read, he could succeed, and this year he would learn to do both.

We worked a lot. I rarely made him read aloud and I changed all of his notes to fill in the blank. D listened intently to what I had to say, and if I could add an arm motion to what I was teaching, there was no need for D to pick up a pencil. I had to quickly reconcile the fact that it was just as important for D to learn to think, analyze, compare and contrast as it was for him to read the pages in his textbook.

D started rocking his benchmark exams. They were read aloud, but he was seeing success..seeing that he could learn and master standards. While during class I was busy teaching the layers of the ocean and the American Revolution, after school or in free time I was helping D recognize more words, chunk words together, and gain confidence in the reading he was excelling at.

My room became a place where D felt smart. While he didn’t leave reading on grade level, he did leave with a passing score on his eighth grade science End of Grade test. In fact, it was so important to D that he passed eighth grade that he stayed after school with me for days, finishing a math packet to earn the credit he needed to pass math. D walked across the stage at his eighth grade graduation ceremony. After graduation, T’s prophecy of my tears came true, as I bawled saying goodbye to the sweet boy who made my second year teaching filled with laughs and reasons to keep working to close the achievement gap. D went on to the ninth grade and I was lucky enough to have the peace of mind that D had one of the best teachers I could imagine in high school, in fact she was my room mate at orientation for Teach for America.

Enough

Jake had eye lashes that could go on for days and a mouth that could be heard zip codes away. Every sentence had extra emphasis and usually required a hand gesture, hip pop, or hand in the face as he walked away. Jake made fun of me, a lot, had a perfect peanut sized body, and knew just how fabulous he was.

I didn't know Jake until he entered my fourth block class last year. He was one new face among many of familiar ones. He of course, had done his research on me, and wanted to see if my reputation as sergeant was one to meddle with.

Jake often played musical chairs in my classroom. I tried him in groups, in the front, in his own island, on the floor, on the desk, I would have tried teaching him while he was flying, if I could. By the end of the year we settled on his own desk in his own corner with his own things always placed inside.

Among a group of kids who loved to talk, Jake loved the sound of his own voice. He always wanted to read aloud, would rather talk it out then write it out, had a response for everything, and never backed down from a fight. He often had the funniest come-backs, not even realizing how witty he was. On more than one occasion I had to walk out in the classroom, laugh, then pull it back together to put him in his place after doing exact imitations of his peers.

Sometimes I couldn't handle the Tasmanian devil personality of Jake, and sometimes all I wanted to do was laugh with him. Sometimes he got kicked out of class, and sometimes he was suspended. Sometimes he wanted to walk down the hallway arm in arm, and sometimes he wanted to be independent. All the time he came to me in the morning, sat by me until the bell was about to ring, and promised he'd be in class later.

I was the bud of many jokes. I am petite, sound like mini-mouse and am often sassy. I am known still for certain phrases and Jake will never let me forget it. When on the brink of going crazy in a classroom Jake knew exactly how to make me laugh. Some common teacher phrases include "I'll wait", "When you're ready", and "You're wasting your own time". I added
"really" and "enough" to my own repertoire. When the classroom was just loud enough, and when I had been interrupted one too many times and my mouth was open to choose which phrase I was going to go with, Jake would stand up (usually on a piece of furniture), bend one knee, pop out one hip, cross his arms, and sassily say, "Enough!". Usually this brought my class and I to laughter and we moved on.

Behind his class clown reputation and active personality Jake could read, well. He struggled paying attention long enough to really comprehend information but when he could get it together long enough to connect concepts Jake was on top of the world. The reason Jake was a joy was because he was often happy. He loved hard, played hard, when bullied, was hurt hard, and wanted to fit in hard.

Jake is one I wish I had a second year with. With another 180 days of instruction and fewer days of interruption, I believe Jake would have seen monumental growth, even greater than the year before. He needs consistency, a place to be settled, and patience. If his current teachers are reading this, let him be funny, don't stifle his humor, it may just help you get through the "icouldgetpaidmoreforpeopletoactuallylistentome" moments and make you realize that he is one reason of many we teach. Without students like him I would have fewer colorful people in my life that have shaped my worldview.

When I Say Stop, Well He Goes

If you had a Drake, you knew it. If you didn't, well you probably slept a lot better for those 180 days.


I met Drake during his seventh grade year. My first principal (of two) decided that each teacher needed to select four or five students to "mentor". As "mentors" we would keep up with our students, review their progress and report cards, and generally just look out for them. Me, being naive, looked at a list of student and knew no one. I was to pick across all three grade levels and both boys and girls. Drake's name was left on seventh grade list and officially my fate of insanity was decided.

My first encounter with Drake came when he was serving an after school detention. I have no idea what he did but when I saw him he was busy drawing his name on the desk placed in the guidance office. I introduced myself and he looked up at me with pitiful honey colored eyes. He looked small, innocent, like there was no way he was capable of whatever he was being accused of. Drake and I were speaking about his year when one of my favorite administrator to date busted through the door and said, "Ms. Frech are you CRAZY that kid is BAD and it is contagious!". I left the office and tried hard each day after that to find Drake.

No worries, I didn't have to try hard. Within two days Drake showed up at my classroom door, yelling down the hallways "DON'T COME NEAR ME, I AM GOING TO SEE MY MENTOR". Woo okkay.

For the next quarter, Drake came to see me instead of his regular scheduled teacher. He did his work, ate snacks, talked, told me about his past, and talked a lot about baseball. I usually didn't ask too much about what he had done right before he was sent to me. That is until he was sent to me and was told not to come back for the remainder of the day. That day I found out that Drake told his teacher to "suck his d....". I made him write an apology note and thought that there was no way this sweet boy could be doing this heinous things.

Fast forward to Drake's eighth grade year. Drake was a part of "that group" of boys. All eighth grade, all fourth and final block of the day. I saw Drake's name on my roster and thought, "thank goodness there would at least be one that will listen to me".

Nope.

Within a week Drake was standing when I said sit, sleeping when I said work, fighting when I said stop, and cursing when I said shut your mouth. Calling his grandmother got me no where, sending him to the administrator hurt my street cred, and having him in my class meant no one else learned.

Suddenly I knew what his past teachers had experienced.

To be fair I should let you know about tidbits of his past. Drake ran away from an abusive mother, his father was in and out of jail, his grandmother just wanted him to be happy, and I had yet to hear of a single teacher who was able to keep him in the room for the whole year. So that meant he had gone nine years in school without 180 days of direct instruction. He was angry, confused, unsettled, and a complete shit. But I loved him.

Here's the thing: Drake was smart. He could read, write, knew grammar, spoke articulately, was clean, well put together, had friends, and wanted to see just how crazy he could make each of his teachers. He needed help beyond my profession and needed it immediately.

Drake left for the school year. My classroom got really quiet for awhile but it always seemed empty. It's hard to teach students whose outside life makes it impossible to learn. It is impossible to teach students who cannot get past the mess of his life to see five feet in front of him. It is hard to think this is the lives of children. It is impossible to believe that in today's age of social awareness these injustices are still happening to our children.