True Lies and the Patience to Dialogue Toward Truth

Leo

“I can’t stay after school. I gotta pick up my little brother,” Leo says as he comes in at lunch to do a reading assignment. (All names are pseudonyms.)

“I understand, but you missed a week of school, and if you can just stay one day after school, we can work through this research project step-by-step. Twenty minutes at lunch isn’t going to do it,” I explain as we sit at a table in the back of the classroom and log into our Chromebooks. Leo opens up his blog and takes out his soccer book.

“But I finished the blog. Can I leave?” he pleads.

“Really? Great. Let’s take a look, and then we can work on your speech,” I reply opening my trail mix.

“Nope. I ain’t doing that. I am not giving a speech,” he states firmly pointing to his almost finished blog post.

“Uh huh, I hear you. Let’s just work on it and then see how you feel,” I suggest.

For fifteen of the twenty minutes, Leo talks (sort of flirts) with a girl who stayed in at lunch to write her speech. Unlike Leo, she hasn’t missed a single day of school. She just wasn’t interested in doing the project until today.

My student teacher jumps into their banter. Between bites of food and typing, a debate about Real Madrid and Barcelona (and later Chivas) emerges. I think it is cute, but not a lot of work is happening here.

I get up from our table to get my cell phone and move to my laptop attached to the projector docking station at the front of the classroom.I pull up the school information system, find Leo’s mom’s cell number, and text her about Leo staying after school. I was Leo’s teacher last year. He never, not once, did an assignment outside of class. He has stayed after school in the past, but not once this year. I know many students have responsibilities at home, but I also know that parents want to know how their child is doing in school, to be involved. I text her asking how we could make arrangements for one day after school — maybe more. She texts back in seconds saying he could stay that day — no mention of Leo’s brother.

“We’re all set for after school today, Leo.”

“Monday?”

“No, today. Your mom, it seems, will make other arrangements for your brother so you can stay today and Monday,” I explain to Leo showing him the text as gets up to throw away is half eaten orange and untouched hash browns.

“I ain’t staying after school,” he says as he walks out of the room.

The school day ends at 2:30 pm, and there is an activity bus at 4:00 pm. I stay after school a few days a week to work with students or just offer a quiet place to read or do homework as I do the same. When a student does stay to work on reading, what we can accomplish in an hour and a half is a lot, and we also have some time to just talk about life. For so many students, this dedicated time has made all the difference in their understanding of reading, self-confidence, and the trust in our relationship.

Some version of this “I-can’t-stay-after-school” or “I-won’t-stay-after-school” or “I-promise-I’ll-stay-tomorrow-just-not-today” — played out over a dozen times this week with any number of reasons why, including the most honest: “I just don’t want to.” And some version of this parent text message went out to over fifty parents this week. Essentially, I expressed concern and said that I am available to help their child get some time and help after school.

The 2:30 bell rings. I say good-bye to my ninth period class, pull on my coat, and speed walk out to my bus duty position. As I supervise my corner, I try to coax a few students to stay with me after school. They say, “Tomorrow. I promise.”

Once the buses are safely on their way, I return to my classroom. And guess who is there?

Leo.

And guess what he did? He wrote his speech.

Will he give his speech? Not sure.

Was Leo lying about his brother? Was he lying about doing his blog? His speech? Did I overstep by texting his mother and potentially causing problems for childcare?

Johnny

“I don’t read. I’m not reading,” Johnny says as he folds a sticky note into a triangle.

“I recall you saying that yesterday and the day before. Remember when we went to the library last week and you checked out two books? Where are those books that you chose?” I ask.

Johnny joined my class second quarter, so I didn’t get to know his independent reading choices like I did my other students during the first nine weeks of school: One 9-Week Plan on Choice Reading in the Classroom (a Follow-Up). He was really engaged when we read True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and he did well in the book groups (talking is his strength). It’s only now that we are back to choice reading that I see what he chooses on his own.

“At home. But I’m not reading those because I don’t read,” Johnny replies continuing to fold the yellow sticky note.

“Uh, huh, but I know you are writer. You are a poet. Maybe we can find some books that will enhance something you are working on. Tell me what you are writing now.”

“I really just read comic books, but those are at home, too,” Johnny replies bypassing my attempt to connect to his writing.

“Uh, huh, so let’s go to the library and get some comics. You know, when I say you could read any book, I meant it. Comics are books.”

“I have two books checked out, so I can’t.”

“Uh, huh. Hmm,” I respond taking a deep breath. The other twenty-seven students are reading (or pretending to read). I walk away to the graphic novel bookcase and pull out a few books: Tina’s Mouth: An Existential Comic Diary, Ms. Marvel, Vol. 1: No Normal, and Batman: The Killing Joke.

I return to Johnny’s desk who now has several sticky note triangles. I kneel down, exhale, and whisper, “So these might interest you. This one is in a diary form like your writing notebook. Notice how the drawings and notes work together. And these are comic books,” I say putting Ms. Marvel  and Batman on his desk. “Have you read…?”

“This one,” Johnny interrupts as he takes Batman: The Killing Joke.

Johnny doesn’t look up from the book for the rest of class.

Was Johnny lying about being a reader? Reading?

The True “Lies” of Teens in English Class

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I hate reading.

I’m not gonna do it.

I forgot it.

It’s boring.

I’ll come in at lunch to work on it.

I can’t stay after school.

I don’t care.

I imagine you’ve heard others. Please share.

It’s midterm, which means revision days in my reading classes, and I’ve heard all these and more, numerous times this week. I put “lies” in quotes because I don’t understand these statements as lies or falsehoods. I believe that students believe what they say (or use these words because they can’t or won’t say what they really want to). I do believe students say these things to get rid of me a lot of the time or to try to give me a false impression so that I’ll leave them alone. But I also believe that a lot of students have this narrative going about the kind of student (or person) they are, and reading and homework and success just don’t fit into that story.

When I hear these statements in my classroom, my heart breaks a little. My ego is bruised a lot.  Some days, I want to walk away, to give in even for just a day. In fact, the days when these utterances are accompanied by a head down or anger, I usually give a gentle touch on the arm and walk away.  If I can get a little eye contact, I try to convince them why they are wrong or why I’d like them to reconsider, but these “talks” are one-sided and don’t interrupt the student’s narrative.

This week, I wanted to change the narrative. This week I decided to do some revision of my own. I decided to shift the way I respond to students when they seem to reject my plans for class or offers for help. This week, I spent a lot of time within and beyond the classroom uncovering the truth behind these “lies.”  Like the paradox of true lies, it was satisfyingly exhausting.

When a teenager utters a sentence, I 1) believe them and 2) take nothing they say as the absolute truth. Put another way, I do not take what they say as wholly true nor completely a lie. I consider these utterances conversation starters about their beliefs related to the issue and call upon Patience to help me dialogue.

Leo may very well have had to take care of his brother after school, but my job is not to question the veracity of his statement and his integrity, not to lecture him about the importance of school (as if to say brotherly love is less important), not to tattle on him to his mom about a possible lie. My job is uncover what is possible and believe that, in that process, we will get some positive outcomes.

Johnny may very well see himself as a nonreader. He wasn’t trying to give me a false impression of himself when he said he doesn’t read. My job as an educator, however, is to gently disturb his belief to see if he could suspend that belief temporarily to try something other than folding sticky notes in that moment.

A lie is a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive.  I actually think that when students “lie” or make seemingly false or hyperbolic statements about learning that they are being more honest than we give them credit for. I just try not to let their statements end the possibility of thinking, of experiencing:

You hate reading? Hmm, what do you do in your spare time?

You can’t stay after school? Hmm, let’s look at your schedule and see where we can find some time.

You think this is boring? Hmm, tell me what “this” is so far?

You don’t want to do this? Hmm, what would you like to do?

It takes patience for sure, but in these conversations we actually uncover some deep seeded beliefs about learning and start to trouble the narrative of what can happen at school. These conversations are teaching. These conversations are learning.