Knowing When to Smile

What I often do that tends to work quite interestingly, is to smile when I see or hear a student acting up. My smile tells them that they're caught and that I am amused. I've given them what they wanted from everyone else in the class: attention, a chuckle or a laugh, a nod of camaraderie. Instead of them getting it from their friends, they have gotten it from me. Notice however what they haven't gotten, which is often part and parcel with "disruptive" behaviour: they haven't gotten me to yell or scold them, they haven't gotten me to lose my cool, which is to say, they haven't taken control of my influence over the state of the classroom environment.

Do I sometimes want to yell? Absolutely. There's work to be done, deadlines to be met, goals to be achieved - any distractions can prove to be disastrous distractions. I've seen what happens when one students decides that what we're doing is boring, sucks, doesn't make sense. Does my approach "nip things in the bud" - no. But neither do the approaches that depend on being loud, in someone's face, and being all-powerful. If they did, then kids wouldn't be doing the same thing over and over again. If they really worked, then a student who is inclined to be disruptive would stop totally. Most don't, however. In fact, the expected response (the teacher yelling) is part of the pattern to begin with. Why not interrupt that pattern and educate this student along new lines?

By giving the student what something inside of them craves, I am now in the position to brush them towards where I want them to be: back in their own seat. Once I smile and nod at the fact that they are out of their seat, I look at their empty, longing seat and sweep my eye brows towards where I want them. I point to the spot. I continue to smile. But my eyes are serious, even slightly squinted. I'm still smiling, though, I'm still in a good mood, I'm still amused with their antics...but my eyes and my hands and my eyebrows (I've got big ones - a worthy investment for any teacher) are elsewhere, want other things, and they're insisting that the student want those things as well. Often, I don't say a word to the student - it's all non-verbal. Other times, when the deeper rapport hasn't been established, then my voice will be calm, perhaps playful and ironic, or sometimes it's serious, deep, intolerant.

The response I get is often one of "OK, you got me. I'll go back." It's a game, after all. I caught them and they lost, they tried and they lost, and nobody can fault them for that. But at least they go back to their seat smiling, perhaps giggling, and continue their work. Much more elegant, much more relaxed, than going to their seat angry and frustrated and feeling persecuted.

After all, that seat carries so much significance...

on being flexible

There were only three days left in my LTO teaching Grade 8. I was finding it harder to keep everything tightly organized and still meaningful - I understood that a few of the kids were letting go and letting loose. I was feeling stressed and (to quote one of my students who described me as such to another teacher) "grumpy." My hard work was coming to a premature, albeit expected, conclusion and I wanted to ensure that I left on a high note, with the students engaged, having fun and doing something that was memorable. I also regretted the fact that all the things that I wanted to teach them would have to be saved for another class. I felt deflated because this class, the first class I had started and had built, was going to miss out; they deserved the best and I couldn't do anything about it.

We were in the computer lab - the students were putting together a tourism infomercial using the concepts I had just introduced to them in Geography (site, situation, landmark, etc.). I noticed that A.'s group was hard at work, trying to find as much as they could on their assigned city and he was wandering around, making idle chitchat. A. has worn a reputation of being unfocused and a general class disturber for some time. I had worked hard with him to get him to throw away the tired and tiring skin of his previous self and make the shift towards being a committed, talented individual.

After three reminders, I had had enough. I walked over to him, ready to get really angry, but instead of yelling and calling him out in front of everyone, I let him know that I was tired and frustrated while keeping my voice reined in and subdued. "I need you to work with your group to get this assignment done. They're working hard and you're letting them down. And they need you right now." He responded with his customary excuses and I cut him short: "You're not going to start these old ways, especially not now." I let him know that I still believed in him, that I still thought he was a great student and that I wasn't going to let him slip. He knew I was angry, he knew I was disappointed, but he also knew that we were above the "yelling to get control" drama that runs many teacher-student relationships. He knew that he wasn't going to get away with anything.

When we came back from the library and everyone was rehearsing their infomercials (which turned out much better than I would have imagined), I noticed that A. was at the helm of his group, directing people, setting up props, making stage directions.

I called him over.

Wearing a sly, proud grin, I put my hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eyes and said: "Thank you for your hard work." He smiled back, and at that moment, all the stress I had been feeling was forgotten. I was still tired, and still feeling grumpy, but I wasn't letting these feelings stress me. "Now get back to your group," I grunted, like the clichéd coach telling his star player to just get the job done already, you've wasted our time enough. I nodded and went back and it was sincerely cool to watch him remember that how he was, and whatever "issues" others had labelled him with, did not mean as much as the fact that he was capable, he was in control, and he could do amazing things.

As much as I wanted to yell at A. I knew that it couldn't be the default response. This kid had teachers and parents yell at him for ages about sitting in his seat, about doing his work, about leaving other people alone. Here he was, fourteen, and yelling never accomplished a thing. I changed my approach and he changed his.

finding a strong enough "Why"

We often encounter people who we label (in secret of course, behind the mind's closed doors and spoken only to our closest friends) as "belligerent," "lazy," "good-for-nothing." They don't do any work, they don't study, they'll never amount to anything. Followed by, "I just understand them." A shrug of the shoulders, a flippant upward cast of the eyes, and oh well, so it goes.

It's in situations like these that we should really engage the other person and hear and see and feel what it's like for them to not want to do something that we think they should want to do. There just might be a postage stamp of insight, something small enough to hold and study and appreciate, that will allow us to shift our approach.

I mentioned in my first post about a student who refused to write his reading comprehension test. When I approached him I did something that he might not normally have been used to. Instead of standing over him and talking down, I kneeled down and asked him what was going on with the test. "Why do I have to write this test anyway?" He was wearing plastic glasses from a 3-D movie he had probably recently seen, whose lenses were missing. Looking like the class clown. It was an excellent question - why was he being forced to write a test about a subject he didn't care about?

"Well...it allows us to understand what you know and understand when you read this text", I answered, though I could tell that didn't satisfy him.

"It doesn't even matter because I don't like to write."

I looked down at his test and noticed that it was at a reading level four grades lower than everyone else. I looked him in the eyes, smiled, and asked: "What kind of work would you want to do if I could snap my fingers?" He thought about it for less than two seconds and easily answered:

"I'd be a cop."

Quite ironic that this boy, who didn't respect authority and didn't do as he was told wanted to be someone who told others what to do for a living.

"You realize that cops have to write reports. They have to be able to take in information and make sense of it and write about it."

He thought about that for a second. I continued: "These test are given so that you can practice reading information and answering questions and writing those answers down so that other people can understand it as well."

What I was doing was tying together the test that he was writing with the reports that he will be writing as a cop. Up until now it was only a test that teachers gave that had tremendously boring articles and even more painful questions. At least now writing the test was linked to his future as a cop, to something that he wanted to do. There was a purpose to his writing the test where before there wasn't one at all.

"Let's try one of the easier questions first," I offered. I read it to him, rephrased it a bit after, and prompted him. He gave me an answer that was great. My eyes widened at his answer, I smiled, and eagerly told him to write that answer down. He looked at me strangely and I just continued to encourage him. "I'm not kidding," I said, "that was a good answer. Write that down." I was genunely showing him my enthusiasm with how well he answered (his supply teacher for the day, no less). I didn't say "Good work" in a dry, spiritless monotone - I showed it with my body, with my face, with my eyes, and the pitch and tone of my voice. And if he looked at me like an alien...well, so what?

And so he started to write. I half-expected his printing to be illegible but it was quite neat.

"Your writing is actually really neat. Neater than most adults." He looked at me with his eyebrows knotted; I smiled, and then I told him I'd check on him in five minutes. And I walked away.

I noticed that he lowered his head and continued to write.

the lighthouse strategy

Having just worked for a straight year teaching Grade 8s in an "inner city" school in Toronto, I now find myself with the unenviable position of having to wait for a call to work. I often dread the call as much as I want my cell to ring. Where will they send me? What will the kids be like? Will it be for the whole day? The comfortable monotony of knowing where I will be driving and knowing where to pick up the students and knowing how many people are allowed to go to the bathroom at one time and whether boys have to be paired with boys, or, no Mr. Dafos, a boy can go to the bathroom with a girl, they just have to wait for each other so that they come back together. Sigh.

For a supply teacher, it really is a war zone at time: so many new faces, all of them looking at you with disdain and painful apathy. Day plans by teachers who just assume that you'll magically understand where Entrance 4 is when there are no signs signalling the entrances to the school. Day plans that are written in grade 3-esque chicken scratch, where arrows signify "oops, do this activity here instead of here." And my favourite day plans that advise: "see Ms. Latimer for worksheets." Who is Latimer, where do I find her, and why aren't the worksheets here on the desk so that I don't have to rake through the school looking for her?

Since I can't ask the teacher what they meant by this symbol and what that word says and where this exit is, my first plan of attack (to keep the war zone metaphor going) is to diffuse the student body. I know that most of these kids lick their lips upon the first glance of a supply teacher. I also know that they are met with disdain and scornful looks from the supply teacher. The relationship for both bodies (students and teacher) is typical: "if the kids work or not isn't worth worrying about because I'll never have to see them again; their not my students anyway" and "This is a chance to let out some craziness on this schmuck."

What I do first as students walk in is smile. Not a "oh, I'm so happy to see you" kind of smile which the students will find suspect...and, well, bloody lame. I put on a clever, knowing smile, I soften my eyes, I relax my whole body and make sure I say "How are you buddy," "How's it goin'?" and "Welcome" to the students I know might normally give me a hard time. My voice pitch is low, measured, controlled. I show them that I'm calm and usually by default, they too become calm. The excitement of attacking the enemy neutralizes for most of them. I breath deeply, down from my belly, before I say anything, all the while smiling and remaining silent. I look at them all. As they are settling down, I will walk over to the tribe leader and ask "Who's the real trouble maker?" I ask with a wry grin on my face - that grin becomes his grin quite quickly. My knowing eyes become his knowing eyes. We're in on this together now. And yes, it's usually a boy.

From there, I thank people for any sign of positivity. Thank you for giving me your attention. Thanks for holding that thought till later. Thanks for getting to work. Thanks for helping me out. The thank yous are also evenly measured and they sweep from left to right usually. What's quite interesting to see is how one thank you relaxes and focuses and even makes the others sit up straighter. I turn my attention to these students and smile, knowing that - there it is! - they'll look at me to see if I noticed their shift in behaviour. And my smile becomes their smile.

When someone demonstrates an act of insurgency, I say nothing to them. I look them in the eyes, lower my outstretched hand to signal that they sit down (sometimes with a "I know you want to get out of your seat but not right now" kind of frown on my face). The best is putting your palms together and making as if you're begging them to get to work without saying anything. I've gotten so used to watching students give up, sit down, and get back to work.

What I'm doing is asking for compliance by saying as few words as possible. I remain in control of my posture. I don't shout. I smile and breath deeply. I look everyone in the eyes. I react to nothing. My voice is measured, my pitch low, my words purposeful, meaningful. My focus is making sure most everyone is relaxed, smiling, sitting. Even if they're not working, at least their not battling. I'm a lighthouse, a beacon, and (dare I quote) even "cool." Then can I start throwing in some self-deprecating humour to get everyone laughing and feeling even more comfortable. I tell stories about my childhood, and they respond with stories of their own ("connections," as we call them in teacherspeak).

I was in a school in Ajax, lower middle-class area, tougher Grade 7s and 8s. By using my lighthouse strategy I got this kid to write some answers to his mandatory reading comprehension test just by listening to him, answering his questions, and encouraging him to recognize that he could write even though he hated writing. This was the second day he had that test in his hands and today, with a supply teacher, did he finally write something down - something of intelligence, might I add. I had the student teacher who I was working with say to me after: "Wow, you got M. to sit down and write. I've never seen these kids respond to a supply teacher the way they did."

I just softly gazed at her, smiled a knowing smile, and nodded on the next exhalation.