D. is seven years old. He comes from China. He arrived in the United States in early September of this year. The first time I laid eyes on him, he was screaming, crying and punching everything around him. It was his first morning in an American school. Several teachers were wrestling him, trying to get him to leave his mother’s side and line up with Ms. B.’s second grade class in the gym. The rest of the faculty and students looked on in shock.
The teachers failed to get D. into the gym that morning, and every morning for the next week. It wasn’t until the following week, when four more teachers joined forces against him, his mom ran away down the stairs, and the principal locked the door to the gym after her, that he was forced into Ms. B.’s line, still screaming and crying. And the rest of the faculty and students still looked on in shock.
Mr. J., my school’s ESL specialist knocked politely on my door on the afternoon of the third Friday in September. He’d brought me a whole stack of ESL books and hand-outs. I should have recognized that he was trying to soften me up. “So…” he began. “You’re going to be getting a new student.” I was confused. Hardly a day had passed that I hadn’t gotten a new student, and Mr. J. had never personally prepared me for any of them before. “He’s a little different. He comes from China.”
I still didn’t put two and two together, although I was slightly terrified at the prospect of a Chinese student. Most of the students in my class speak Spanish better than English, but, after taking Spanish in high school and college, I can communicate with them pretty well. I had friends who took Chinese in college and I was already wondering if maybe one or two of them would be willing to move to the Bronx and translate for me and my new student. “Anyway,” Mr. J. continued, “he should be moving to your class sometime next week. If we can get him through the door.” And the truth finally dawned on me…
The transition to a new classroom was almost as painful as the transition into the school in the first place. There were a few failed attempts. Finally, on Wednesday, his mother succeeded in beating him with an umbrella to get him into the gym, and then she ran away while another teacher and I wrestled D. into my line. I should have warned my students. Their response, as the teachers held the kicking and screaming child at the back of my boys’ line, echoed my own: “Oh. My. God.”
The most astonishing part of the day came right after lunch: math. I was giving a test on number order, with some addition and subtraction problems thrown in at the end. I didn’t have a lot of hope that my students would do well, since the diagnostic I’d administered at the beginning of the year showed me that most of them couldn’t put the numbers 1-10 in order. The majority of my student’s performance surprised me pleasantly. But D.’s performance (I’d handed him a test, just so he wouldn’t feel excluded or set apart from the rest of the class) blew me away. It was perfect. Even the tricky addition and subtraction problems on the last page. Perfect. I couldn’t believe it.
From then on, I had my entry point. Every morning, D.’s mother would beat him with her umbrella until he got through the gym doors. I would meet him there, put an arm around his shoulder, and hand him a sheet of math problems and a pencil. As he looked them over, I would guide him slowly into line and wave goodbye to his mother. And he would stand peacefully in line, answering every problem, from 2-digit addition and subtraction to multiplication and division. My other students were as amazed as I was. “D. is a math genius!” we decided together. He still didn’t understand anything I said, he still wouldn’t make a noise in English or in Chinese, he still wouldn’t come to sit on the mat when the rest of the students did, and he still ran to his mother’s arms at the end of the day. But finally, D. was starting to feel like part of my class.
Every morning, I greet the children at the door and shake each one of their hands. They are to say, “Good morning, Ms. Powell,” while giving me a firm handshake and looking right in my eyes. Since the second or third week of having D. in my class, I have tried desperately to get him to take part of this ritual, but to no avail. He shakes my hand and looks at me with big, puppy-dog eyes. And his mouth stays closed.
Finally, one morning a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t let him in the room. I stood outside with him for a good five minutes. I broke up the words, speaking each one of them slowly while pointing to my mouth, and then pointing at his mouth. Finally, I heard him say it. “Good morning, Ms. Powell.” I was ecstatic and ran into the classroom, shouting. “D. said ‘Good morning!’ D. said ‘Good morning!’” The class went crazy. D. SAID GOOD MORNING. Every one of the students was running around with giant smiles on their faces, coming up to D. and giving him hugs and shaking his hand and patting him on the back. They were as overjoyed as I was.
My students struggle with number grids. To be honest, I struggle with them too. Until you really internalize the fact that to the right means plus one, to the left means minus one, up means minus ten and down means plus ten, they just look like a lot of meaningless boxes. D., however, does not struggle with number grids. The other day, after a number grid lesson, it was time for independent practice. Most of my kids weren’t getting it. Before I knew what was happening, D. was out of his seat. He’d go up to E., point at an empty box on the number grid, and then make the two or three digits of the numbers on his fingers as E. scribbled them down furiously. I was not, of course, happy about the fact that E. wasn’t doing his own work. But I was happy when, during the “I’m grateful for ___” portion of our community meeting that afternoon, nearly every child in the class said they were grateful for D. because he helped them with math.
We had another exciting math moment right before Winter Vacation. The lesson was on breaking up a 3-digit number into 3 pieces (e.g. 258=200+50+8), and it was the guided practice portion of the lesson, so students were coming up to a white board to solve problems and explain how they found the solutions. I was shocked when, after writing a problem on the board and turning back to face the class, D.’s hand was waving around in the air. “Call on D., call on D.!” the rest of the class chorused. So I did and he, of course, came up and solved the problem perfectly. We clapped for him as he went back to his seat. “Well done, D.!” I told him. “Move up to Perfect Pink” (the reward for excellent behavior or performance). Without hesitation, and with a big smile on his face, he found his clothespin and moved it up before sitting back in his seat.
