"If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse;
however, if I treat you as though you are
what you are capable of becoming,
I help you become that."
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
What I do remember, however, is the way Robin always made me feel like I could do no wrong. And even in the "mistakes" I might have been making, he continually showed me what lessons could be learned from them, without telling me. But most of all, he taught me that no matter how little experience I may have had in teaching, or how young I was, that my intuition was strong, and that I needed to have faith in it, because Robin, for whatever reason, always seemed to have faith in me.
He first arranged for me to meet up with the teacher of the classroom I would be working in, and to visit the school. I was excited the first day I walked into the school, eager to see the kids and find out what the school and teachers were about. I was still under the impression that I would somehow have lessons on 'how to teach', either from the regular classroom teacher, or from Robin. As I observed the classroom teacher, it appeared she had a strong sense of management and organization. Her grade five class listened quietly and seemed to do as they were told. Now, looking back, I can appreciate the way she took command of the class in order to be efficient and ensure the best use of time. She was obviously very skilled at getting information across. I can recall bits of a math lesson she taught. She was very clear with her explanations and examples, and kept the children engaged and on task.
Nevertheless, when she first led me through a door in the school hallway, there's a memory, even after all these years, that still stands out to me. A child- he couldn't have been more than about eight years old- had rushed passed through the same door she had opened. And she grabbed his hand, and stopped him, making him go back through the door and let the adults in first. She turned to me and said, "You have to teach them manners."
I understood the lesson in it, being polite towards adults, but there was something about the force in her grip on him, and the anger in her voice, that didn't sit right with me. Instead of learning how to be more polite, I felt as if the child learned that he had to do this polite act out of fear of a controlling adult, who ironically, was not modeling good manners herself. But, being the new one in the school, I nodded, as if to understand, or at least accept, that this teacher must know what she’s doing. Yet, deep down inside, I felt uneasy about the way in which this child was treated.
I tried shoving the thought aside, reminding myself that my lack of experience must mean that I was wrong to judge the way I did. I figured the teacher who had been there for years must be right. And I let it go, or at least I thought I let the incident go. But here I am, still to do this day, realizing that it was one of my most vivid memories of that time.
When I returned to Robin’s office the next day, I think I mentioned something about the incident to him, but I didn’t want to seem critical of a teacher who I assumed he knew well and respected. I didn’t want to sound judgmental when I hadn’t had any experience in the field myself. He didn't try to correct my thinking, but listened, and made me feel as if my opinion mattered.
After Robin helped me decide on which poems to approach the kids with first- those that were fun and would capture the kids' attention and interest- I started going into the classroom twice a week, with a better sense of where to start with my lessons. Sometimes, I would take the kids in small groups, to work on a particular exercise from our larger lessons while the other kids would be having their regular class with their teacher. On other days, I worked with the kids as a whole, for short amounts of time, to introduce them all to the next topic or exercise.
And each time I had a new day or two of working with the kids, no matter how it went, I always looked forward to relating my experience to Robin.
Most of the kids I worked with, even if they were not as strong in their writing skills, or got distracted easily, at least contributed to the class, or completed the exercises I gave them, to the best of their ability. Or at least they asked questions and listened as much as a child of that age could. But there was one girl Roxy who seemed determined to make each day that I was in that classroom a struggle for me. I think she actually used the words, “I want to make you cry,” or “I’m going to make you cry,” and said them right to my face, without much hesitation. She said something about how she made every new teacher cry to the point that they couldn’t stand her or the classroom for very long. I took the warning to heart, even though I tried to make her think that her words had no effect on me.
I pretended not to be bothered when she’d interrupt the classroom, refuse to participate in the exercises, criticize something I’d say or disregard the instructions I’d give in the lesson. Sometimes, she'd start talking to her friends at the back of the room, laughing, or ignoring me, whichever disrespectful behavior she chose for that day, anything to make me feel uncomfortable and unwelcome. I tried to hide how her antics were getting to me. I continued to smile and show indifference to her lack of effort or attention to instructions. But I made sure not to show indifference to her. I always tried to include her as much as I could, I always showed her respect, even when I felt it wasn't being returned, and I spoke to her with the same kindness and patience that I did with the other students.
At one point, I think I even resolved to allow anyone in the classroom who did not want to do the assignments to just not do them, because I wanted poetry to be enjoyable, because I wanted the kids to choose to participate, rather than feel forced or hate every minute of the writing assignments. I think the other teaches thought this was crazy, or at least rather naive of me. But I was impressed that most of the kids chose to participate. Most of them at least tried, to some extent, and didn't back out, even when they got frustrated, most of them, except for Roxy. She chose not to just be a bystander, if you will. I don't actually remember her writing much of anything down in the first couple of weeks I was there. At the time, I wasn't even sure that she had heard anything I had said, or whether she was understanding any of the exercises.
As soon as I was out of that classroom and able to run back to Robin’s office later that day or the following day, I would feel as if I really was going to burst into tears. I never said these exact words to him, but often, I would be thinking, “How could you just throw me into this classroom of thirty-two kids, with this girl who is trying to make things so difficult, when I have no idea what I’m doing? I can't do this."
But Robin, without saying much, would get me to focus on the positives- on how one child, David, who didn’t like poetry was beginning to appear more excited about writing about his favorite sports or games in poetic form, or how Donna, who didn’t seem very good with her word choice in her journals was exploring words and having fun with alliteration in her poetry. And how each day, the kids seemed to become a little more aware of how they could use these little tools I was giving them to create their own imaginative pieces of writing. I could feel the poets coming out in each of them. I could feel the way they were starting to see that poetry was all around them, that poetry was not just about flowers or landscapes or people, but could be about food, or could be funny, or sad, or come in different shapes and describe tastes and sounds or give life to inanimate objects.
Robin was making me see that I was making a difference, that I was opening the children's minds to the power of their imaginations. He reminded me of why I had acquired a love for poetry myself, how Wordsworth and Professor Johnson had opened up my mind in a similar way, and Robin made me see how this passion for the subject that I had was a type of experience. In learning and enjoying and appreciating poetry, I had a kind of start to one aspect of what made a good teacher. And in experiencing great teachers such as Professor Johnson, I had subconsciously learned how to simplify information in an understandable way. I had learned how to share my passion for the subject with others, because someone else had shared this same passion with me. Robin showed me that despite my lack of teaching experience in a classroom, I had gained a different kind of experience as a student of great teachers. And this, in itself, was still useful and worthy. And whenever I thought I was ready to give up, or give in, he would believe in me so much, that I had no choice but to believe in myself.
I decided that my final project for the course would be to put together a book, a collection of the kids' poems, and I wanted it to be something that not only the kids would be proud of but that would also make Robin proud. Just as a student can often work hard to please a teacher that they look up to, I wanted to produce something to show Robin how much his mentoring and support had meant to me.
As each lesson became more focused, and I now had this greater goal in my mind, the vision of the book grew in my head as well. I decided I wanted to get the book bound and printed and include illustrations, a cover, an introduction and conclusion in it. The kids were working hard, and I wanted them to have a momento of their work and our time together. I wanted them to see what their minds and ideas and time could produce, the same way that Robin was showing me what my mind and ideas could produce. So I decided I was going to print multiple copies of the books so that each child had their own to take home with them. I didn't have the money for this, as I was still a student living off a student loan, in England. But I couldn't let go of the idea. I was determined to find a way.
Another problem was that Roxy was still not really participating in the exercises. I didn’t want to leave her out of the book. I needed to find a way to get her involved. I asked her if there was a certain topic or type of poem she enjoyed or if she had any other type of writing that she had done in the past. I was just trying to find anything that would work. Instead, she surprised me when she told me that she actually did write poetry, that she even liked writing poetry, "But you wouldn't like my stuff," she said. Wouldn't like your stuff? I thought. I didn't even know you had stuff that you had written! At first, I was excited. But then I didn’t know what to make of her not wanting to do the class assignments I gave, but being comfortable enough writing at home. I didn’t know if it was a matter of privacy, or if she was just being stubborn, or if she just needed to be in the right environment to want to write. Perhaps she needed to be alone? Or was it just me? I started to take it personally, wanting to figure out what I was doing wrong, what I was doing to make it difficult for her to write during my lessons.
When I mentioned the book to the regular teacher, and asked what kind of student Roxy was in terms of her previous writing ability or assignments, the teacher actually told me that perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to include Roxy’s writing in our book. I was kind of confused by the comment. I mean, here I was trying to figure out how to include her. She was a part of the class. But the teacher said, “Well, Roxy is very sexually aware for her age, so sometimes, what she writes is not very appropriate for the class or the other students.”
I was unsure what to make of the teachers words. I mean, if the 'problem' was Roxy’s sexual awareness, I didn’t see how keeping her out of the book or stopping her from writing about these experiences was a fair solution. I thought Roxy needed to be heard, or at least that she be allowed to express her thoughts privately on paper. Perhaps that was the only place she felt able to. I didn't think it fair to make her writing the issue when it seemed that something deeper in her life may need to be addressed.
So I asked Roxy if I could see some of her poetry.
She brought a couple of her pieces to school and they were amazing. Her writing was so raw, so real. It just truly expressed emotions that I’m sure a lot of kids and even adults undergo regularly, but are too scared to admit to. Her poems spoke of her loneliness and anger at being misunderstood. She obviously had a great sense of the power of poetry, how to use words to express feelings. That was what I was trying to get across to the kids throughout my time there. And she just HAD IT. So instead of taking their regular teacher’s advice, I included Roxy’s poems in the book, and emphasized them with a sketch or background that would draw the reader’s attention even further to her words.
“You’re a great writer,” I kept telling her, “You really are.”
And soon, Roxy was participating a little more in our exercises, giving her ideas more, but mostly, she seemed a little less determined to fight me through each day, and a little more ready to learn, listen and allow me the space to teach and to be heard. In turn, she started giving herself more space to grow in the classroom with her peers. I think they were getting a chance to learn from her as well.
Now that Roxy was getting involved, and I finally had all the kids' works in some form or another, I needed to get the work edited. We were getting closer and closer to the end of my time at the school. And I was collecting kids’ poems, finding extra time to go in and meet with them individually to proofread and finalize the finishing touches on each of their work.
On one of those days, I went into the classroom to pick something up, and tried not to interrupt the class as I grabbed a few things, while their regular classes were going on. As I was passing by a row of desks, I felt a hand reach out and touch mine. I turned to see that Roxy had slipped a folded piece of paper in my palm.
It was totally unexpected, so I didn’t know how to react at first. I thought I should appear angry, letting her know it was inappropriate, and that she should be listening to the teacher in front of her. After all, I was a student teacher there, someone who was to try to stop students from passing notes, to remind them to listen and pay attention. But here I was a 'teacher' being given a note by a student. I didn’t really know how to handle it. But I have to admit that I was impressed at how sneakily she was able to do it without her regular teacher noticing.
I gave her a quick glance of acknowledgement, tucked the note into my pocket, and walked away trying to be as inconspicuous as she had been in giving it to me.
When I was far enough away from the classroom to open the piece of paper in privacy, I saw Roxy’s words, printed in fat, neat, pencilled letters, over about three or four ruled lined pages. And the first line read "Dear Taz,…"
Little did I know that those words and that letter from that ten year old girl, who just a couple of months earlier had almost had me convinced that she hated me, was going to change the course of my life forever.
*Note: The name Roxy has been used in replacement of this girl's real name for the purpose of her privacy.
