It was the first day of my first year teaching in my very own classroom. What most people don't realize--I certainly hadn't--is that student teaching doesn't begin until at least a couple weeks after a semester begins. So a first-year teacher has usually had no real experience preparing for or surviving the first first day of school. I had about eight students on my class list--pretty typical of a self-contained special ed classroom.
However, several times that day, my classroom door swung open and another student was ushered in with a brief, "Here's another one for you!" Now, self-contained classrooms aren't like regular classrooms, where the teachers will randomly get a new student based on class-size and determined by administration. No kiddo should cross my threshold without a meeting of the IEP team and an IEP in place. But I was busily involved in first-day activities with my students, while trying to smoothly integrate each newly-delivered 5th or 6th grader into our growing class. Though I desperately wanted to, I didn't think I could say, "Enough! No more! Stay out!" It was my first first day...what did I know?
By the last bell my class size had doubled! I'd had to snag extra desks and chairs from a classroom next door. As soon as the school day was over, I marched to the front office, right up to my new best friend's desk--that is, the principal's secretary--and wailed, "Bea, where'd all these kids come from?!"
I handed her a list of students who had appeared out of somebody's hat that day. She looked them up on her computer, one by one, and found out that most--thank God!--did not actually belong in my class. They were students who received resource services...that is, they were in a regular education classroom, but had special education support one or two periods a day. There was one name on the list, though, that Bea couldn't find. We did some checking around, and there were simply no records on this kiddo. No registration information. No immunization records. No proof of address--heck, no address at all! Therefore, of course, no phone number...and certainly no IEP. Um...it was a little alarming that this kiddo had been on campus all day, in a self-contained special education classroom no less, and we had no clue who he was.
We did solve one mystery. It turns out that as students were streaming onto campus that morning, the school counselor, Mr. Phillips, helpfully directed anyone who asked about 5th/6th grade special education to my classroom. Oy, vey.
So what next? What about this mystery student? It was decided that the next morning, as children were being dropped off at school, we would all keep our eyes peeled; as soon as we saw this kiddo alight from his parents' car, we would make our move! We would have the parents come into the school and get him registered. It was a great plan, but we were lousy operatives. Suddenly the kiddo was on campus, but no one had seen him arrive. Foiled! We had missed our opportunity. Mr. Phillips brought him into the office for a gentle interrogation.
This bewildered 10-year-old provided his name and birthday, but didn't know his telephone number. There was no number listed under his family's name in the phone book or by calling 411. Address? Nope, but, "I can tell you a couple streets by my house, and I could show you how to get there!" No other schools in the district had any information on the little guy; every phone call was a dead-end. After about an hour of head-scratching and hand-wringing and confab by those in the front office, it was finally determined that, since the kiddo was confident he could provide directions in a "this-is-where-we-turn-left" kind of fashion, Mr. Phillips would simply have to run him home in his own car. Unfortunately, it turned out this kiddo lived about 15 miles from our school...way out of district. What were his parents thinking?
The first days of school are brutal for everyone, but the office staff and administration were particularly overwhelmed. There were 800 students on this campus, and the one school counselor really had about 799 other things he needed to take care of. But an unregistered, unidentifiable kiddo on campus is just not okay. So, with no better plan at the ready, Mr. Phillips grabbed his cell phone, threw a defeated look at Bea, and headed out the door with his 10-year-old fare.
Fifteen miles, city traffic the entire way. Fortunately, the drive home was going smoothly. This kiddo was right...he really did seem to know where he was going. Traffic was lousy, it was over 100 degrees, and it was hard not to think of what fires he could be putting out back at the school. But Mr. Phillips would soon put this one out, would let these parents know that their son had to attend school in his own district, and he could cross this task off his list. He was almost home free.
Until, about 10 minutes from the boy's neighborhood, when the kiddo turned to Mr. P and asked curiously, "Who's going to bring my sister home?"
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Almost...There...
Life in a classroom for students with emotional disabilities (ED) is...different. One of the first and most useful things I learned as a student teacher was what we call, in short, "approximation." When you're teaching a student to replace an inappropriate behavior with an appropriate one, he may begin very...very...very far from the goal. For instance, a new kiddo comes into your class and you quickly find that his regular education teachers and everyone else were right...this kid NEVER sits in his chair! (We'll get to absolutes like "never" and "always" another day.) Even with you or a paraprofessional (I'll slip sometimes and call them "aides," which doesn't nearly describe what they do in your average special education classroom) sitting righttherenexttohim he will demonstrate that he has, in fact, not mastered the skill of just sitting still for five minutes! And it may be a long time before you see five minutes of sitting. There are a lot of steps between zero and five, and it all involves approximation.
Let's be clear here...I can almost guarantee you that the kiddo isn't lacking in this area because nobody ever tried to teach him this skill, or his regular education teacher just "let it go," or "they" kept "letting him" get away with it. I promise you, every teacher this little guy's had up until now has tried to get him to stay in his chair. But with 29 other students in the room who actually are in their chairs, on-task (relatively), and ready to learn (for the most part), a classroom teacher can only spend so much time addressing this one student's many needs. Because again, I guarantee you: sitting in the chair? Not the only problem this little guy is having in the classroom.
After a lot of effort on a lot of people's parts, and many interventions (we love that word), and some behaviors that have become dangerously unmanageable in the regular classroom (throwing scissors at other students, running out of the classroom and heading for the major street outside the gate, throwing his chair in the general direction of the teacher's head) and a bunch of meetings and paperwork, this kiddo ends up in the special education classroom. Guess what he's not going to be able to do the first day? Sit in his chair.
So this is one of the great things about a self-contained classroom: the teacher in there does have the time to teach this guy how to behave appropriately in a classroom. In a self-contained classroom for kids with emotional disabilities and severe behavior issues, that's the focus of the classroom. The teacher to student ratio is much smaller, and we work with these behaviors on a daily basis. Yes, we are still teaching the three Rs, but we use these tasks to teach appropriate behavior skills.
And this is where approximation comes in. Rome was not built in a day. Baby steps are the most we can hope for. Ultimate goal is for the kiddo to sit in the chair? Okay, today when this kid sits in his chair for 15 seconds he is going to hear what a great job he is doing! "Nice job sitting in your chair! When you sit in your chair I know you're ready to learn."
Approximation involves another vital skill for ED teachers: ignoring inappropriate behavior. This kiddo needs to learn that whenever he does what is expected, life is going to be wonderful and he's going to get all sorts of attention. When he behaves in an unexpected way--jumping up and running to the bookcase--he loses all attention. He knows the expectation: sit in your chair. And we have the time to praise him every single time his bottom touches the seat. And you know what? That feels pretty good to this little guy.
At first he'll be surprised..."Wait, I did something right?" And he'll wonder when we're going to yell at him for getting up. But we don't. Instead, he suddenly doesn't exist. All the kids in the classroom who are sitting in their chairs are getting regular reinforcement for exhibiting this single skill: sitting in their chairs. They get verbal praise, they may earn points on a point sheet, they may get some small but tangible reward. What's this kiddo going to want? Attention. Praise. Points. Stuff. And he's not stupid. He's going to figure it out pretty quickly. And the time he sits in his chair will increase in duration and frequency. Behavioral expectations are going to increase as well; it won't always be okay to sit for only 15 seconds. But for now, it's an achievable goal.
Sounds simple, huh? If only it were. So we need to make sure we catch him and reinforce him every time he even comes close to the behavior we're looking for. It's how we shape behavior. And it's how this kiddo gets one step closer to success at school.
Approximation can be bewildering for the uninitiated adult observer. A few will become so frustrated that this kid is getting any kind of praise at all when clearly he's not behaving as he should be! If we're lucky, those people aren't our bosses.
Malcolm was a second-grader who joined the self-contained classroom with many issues, and the first one that needed to be addressed was his physical aggression. This little guy could not, would not, keep his hands, or feet, or head, to himself. If someone got too close to his toys, Malcom shoved him down. When another kid touched his backpack while standing in line, Malcolm punched him square in the gut. Frustrated with his math? He'd kick the kid next to him. The classroom mantra became, "Malcolm, use your words to say what you feel!" And we practiced and practiced and practiced using our words instead of our fists. And when the drinking fountain sprayed him in the face, he turned around and head-butted the kid behind him.
Well, his breakthrough came. Not at the most opportune moment, but hey...we take successes where we can get 'em. Several students were working on the computers. The principal and district superintendent dropped by for an informal visit. They'd been in the room for about a minute when something went wrong with Malcolm's computer. He shot up out of his chair and let out a string of profanity that would shock a sailor. (They wouldn't shock an ED teacher...but a sailor? Oh, yeah.) And what feedback did Malcolm receive?
The kind any ED teacher worth her salt would provide: "Malcolm, great job using your words! You are frustrated and angry and you kept your body to yourself! Yay, Malcolm! Yippee! You used your words!"
And that, my friends, is how we do it in the ED classroom.
Let's be clear here...I can almost guarantee you that the kiddo isn't lacking in this area because nobody ever tried to teach him this skill, or his regular education teacher just "let it go," or "they" kept "letting him" get away with it. I promise you, every teacher this little guy's had up until now has tried to get him to stay in his chair. But with 29 other students in the room who actually are in their chairs, on-task (relatively), and ready to learn (for the most part), a classroom teacher can only spend so much time addressing this one student's many needs. Because again, I guarantee you: sitting in the chair? Not the only problem this little guy is having in the classroom.
After a lot of effort on a lot of people's parts, and many interventions (we love that word), and some behaviors that have become dangerously unmanageable in the regular classroom (throwing scissors at other students, running out of the classroom and heading for the major street outside the gate, throwing his chair in the general direction of the teacher's head) and a bunch of meetings and paperwork, this kiddo ends up in the special education classroom. Guess what he's not going to be able to do the first day? Sit in his chair.
So this is one of the great things about a self-contained classroom: the teacher in there does have the time to teach this guy how to behave appropriately in a classroom. In a self-contained classroom for kids with emotional disabilities and severe behavior issues, that's the focus of the classroom. The teacher to student ratio is much smaller, and we work with these behaviors on a daily basis. Yes, we are still teaching the three Rs, but we use these tasks to teach appropriate behavior skills.
And this is where approximation comes in. Rome was not built in a day. Baby steps are the most we can hope for. Ultimate goal is for the kiddo to sit in the chair? Okay, today when this kid sits in his chair for 15 seconds he is going to hear what a great job he is doing! "Nice job sitting in your chair! When you sit in your chair I know you're ready to learn."
Approximation involves another vital skill for ED teachers: ignoring inappropriate behavior. This kiddo needs to learn that whenever he does what is expected, life is going to be wonderful and he's going to get all sorts of attention. When he behaves in an unexpected way--jumping up and running to the bookcase--he loses all attention. He knows the expectation: sit in your chair. And we have the time to praise him every single time his bottom touches the seat. And you know what? That feels pretty good to this little guy.
At first he'll be surprised..."Wait, I did something right?" And he'll wonder when we're going to yell at him for getting up. But we don't. Instead, he suddenly doesn't exist. All the kids in the classroom who are sitting in their chairs are getting regular reinforcement for exhibiting this single skill: sitting in their chairs. They get verbal praise, they may earn points on a point sheet, they may get some small but tangible reward. What's this kiddo going to want? Attention. Praise. Points. Stuff. And he's not stupid. He's going to figure it out pretty quickly. And the time he sits in his chair will increase in duration and frequency. Behavioral expectations are going to increase as well; it won't always be okay to sit for only 15 seconds. But for now, it's an achievable goal.
Sounds simple, huh? If only it were. So we need to make sure we catch him and reinforce him every time he even comes close to the behavior we're looking for. It's how we shape behavior. And it's how this kiddo gets one step closer to success at school.
Approximation can be bewildering for the uninitiated adult observer. A few will become so frustrated that this kid is getting any kind of praise at all when clearly he's not behaving as he should be! If we're lucky, those people aren't our bosses.
Malcolm was a second-grader who joined the self-contained classroom with many issues, and the first one that needed to be addressed was his physical aggression. This little guy could not, would not, keep his hands, or feet, or head, to himself. If someone got too close to his toys, Malcom shoved him down. When another kid touched his backpack while standing in line, Malcolm punched him square in the gut. Frustrated with his math? He'd kick the kid next to him. The classroom mantra became, "Malcolm, use your words to say what you feel!" And we practiced and practiced and practiced using our words instead of our fists. And when the drinking fountain sprayed him in the face, he turned around and head-butted the kid behind him.
Well, his breakthrough came. Not at the most opportune moment, but hey...we take successes where we can get 'em. Several students were working on the computers. The principal and district superintendent dropped by for an informal visit. They'd been in the room for about a minute when something went wrong with Malcolm's computer. He shot up out of his chair and let out a string of profanity that would shock a sailor. (They wouldn't shock an ED teacher...but a sailor? Oh, yeah.) And what feedback did Malcolm receive?
The kind any ED teacher worth her salt would provide: "Malcolm, great job using your words! You are frustrated and angry and you kept your body to yourself! Yay, Malcolm! Yippee! You used your words!"
And that, my friends, is how we do it in the ED classroom.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Beginning
A local high school needed a classroom aide and I needed a job. That's pretty much how it began; I just needed a paycheck. I got more. I fell in love.
I fell in love with the classroom, the students, the teaching, the learning, and the craziness that went with it all. That was in October. By January, I was back in college, but with a goal this time around: I was going to become a high school special education teacher.
It was about time I figured out what I wanted to do when I grew up; I was in my mid-20s but was married with a one-year-old son. My first college gig, right after high school, lasted about a year. 'Nuff said.
So here was the deal: three self-contained special education classrooms at the school for students with emotional disabilities. Self-contained in this case meant they spent pretty much the entire day in these three classrooms. They went to one for math, one for science, and to ours for language arts and social studies. We typically had about 10 students at a time. These are the kids who don't look disabled. Until they are faced with a situation that they don't have the social skills to deal with.
Imagine the hallways of a typical high school between classes. At some point, someone is going to accidentally run into someone else. Most kids will say, "Oops...sorry," or, "Dude! Watch it!" or just ignore and move on. It's a blip in the day. The students in our classrooms? They see these things as personal affronts. If someone bumps into them, they are convinced it was done on purpose because the world is out to get them and they're going to fight back. They're the ones who will grab the other person and threaten to hit him, and sometimes follow through. They might scream some expletives and not be able to let it go. Some might sit down right in the hallway and cry, unable to process the event and filter their emotions like most people can. These are not simply bad kids making bad choices. They are kids who have been diagnosed with an emotional disability.
Let me try to very briefly explain how that works. If a student can't learn, but there's no intellectual or sensory cause or other health factors, if s/he can't maintain relationships with peers and teachers, if s/he acts inappropriately, if s/he exhibits a pervasive mood of depression, if s/he shows physical symptoms because of personal or school problems...s/he may have an emotional disability. And if s/he qualifies as a student with a disability, s/he can get special education services at school. (This is a bare-bones description for the uninitiated...don't use this as a resource in your research, please. Almost any other source you can find will be more useful to you, I promise.)
Yes, these are the kids I fell in love with. Kids with anger issues, kids who cried at the drop of a hat, kids who couldn't be successful in a regular classroom setting because of these varied emotional problems. I know, I know...what teenager doesn't have an emotional disability? Well, take your run-of-the mill teenager, if there is such a thing, and multiply by...ten, maybe?
Yep, I'd found my destiny.
I fell in love with the classroom, the students, the teaching, the learning, and the craziness that went with it all. That was in October. By January, I was back in college, but with a goal this time around: I was going to become a high school special education teacher.
It was about time I figured out what I wanted to do when I grew up; I was in my mid-20s but was married with a one-year-old son. My first college gig, right after high school, lasted about a year. 'Nuff said.
So here was the deal: three self-contained special education classrooms at the school for students with emotional disabilities. Self-contained in this case meant they spent pretty much the entire day in these three classrooms. They went to one for math, one for science, and to ours for language arts and social studies. We typically had about 10 students at a time. These are the kids who don't look disabled. Until they are faced with a situation that they don't have the social skills to deal with.
Imagine the hallways of a typical high school between classes. At some point, someone is going to accidentally run into someone else. Most kids will say, "Oops...sorry," or, "Dude! Watch it!" or just ignore and move on. It's a blip in the day. The students in our classrooms? They see these things as personal affronts. If someone bumps into them, they are convinced it was done on purpose because the world is out to get them and they're going to fight back. They're the ones who will grab the other person and threaten to hit him, and sometimes follow through. They might scream some expletives and not be able to let it go. Some might sit down right in the hallway and cry, unable to process the event and filter their emotions like most people can. These are not simply bad kids making bad choices. They are kids who have been diagnosed with an emotional disability.
Let me try to very briefly explain how that works. If a student can't learn, but there's no intellectual or sensory cause or other health factors, if s/he can't maintain relationships with peers and teachers, if s/he acts inappropriately, if s/he exhibits a pervasive mood of depression, if s/he shows physical symptoms because of personal or school problems...s/he may have an emotional disability. And if s/he qualifies as a student with a disability, s/he can get special education services at school. (This is a bare-bones description for the uninitiated...don't use this as a resource in your research, please. Almost any other source you can find will be more useful to you, I promise.)
Yes, these are the kids I fell in love with. Kids with anger issues, kids who cried at the drop of a hat, kids who couldn't be successful in a regular classroom setting because of these varied emotional problems. I know, I know...what teenager doesn't have an emotional disability? Well, take your run-of-the mill teenager, if there is such a thing, and multiply by...ten, maybe?
Yep, I'd found my destiny.
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