I’ve been supervising practicum students for the past few weeks in intermediate and middle school placements. Students are back in school after many months of being home and sitting at computers, logging in as required to get credit for attendance. Teachers have been trying so hard to motivate them, to find some connection, to figure out how to teach with video disabled and audio muted and with just seeing a name on the screen. Maybe all have been doing the best they can on both ends, trying to connect and make school matter, just wanting to meet in person. And now, these students are back in person just in time for SOL testing.
The best part of my job at Longwood University is getting to see my students become teachers.
It makes my heart soar to sit in the back of classrooms or on a Zoom observation and watch them teach. They use all the deep learning questions they practice in methods classes. They integrate core content into interdisciplinary lessons. They connect with squirmy students who need attention and keep them moving forward in the learning process. They provide affirmation at all the right moments with ease and adjust to amended schedules on the last weeks of school while pitching in to hand out snacks, bag lunches, cover classes while teachers are testing, whatever is needed, as required and requested.
That’s the life of a teacher.
I have left the intermediate and middle schools after supervising my special education teacher candidates these past few weeks with a smile on my face and a grateful heart. Students are back in school. Hallways are full. Tardy bells are ringing. Kids are going in and out of classrooms. Parking lots are dropping off kids with book bags.
We are returning to normalcy…and it feels right. It feels good.
After these visits and as I have driven down 460 West back to Farmville, I have remembered a classroom much like the self-contained class I observed in one neighboring county intermediate school. It was one of the most challenging jobs I have ever had with students I hold dear to my heart still. One of the students in that self-contained classroom was my own.
Erin was in my class for two years. She was by far the most challenging student I taught. She called me Mrs. Feathers at school during instruction and at the same time would wave me off behind her back to stop me from following her from a distance down the hallway to be sure she made it safely to her next class.
Sometimes, she didn’t make it to the next place.
Like the time we had a fire drill and everyone was outside the building…everyone except Erin. I had left school in the middle of the day to take Diana home sick. I tag teamed with Rob to watch her, so I could go back to school to finish the school day only to find that everyone was out of the building but Erin. Lavetta, my classroom aide, knew where to find her and was rushing back into the school and to the sensory corner of my classroom, behind the sea-themed shower curtain hanging from the ceiling to the fluffy bean bags, the quiet lighting, and the trickle of fountain water where she felt safe. At some point in the steady movement of the packed hallways of shoulder to shoulder kids swiftly streaming toward exits while stern voices of adults issued directives that rose above blinking lights and blaring monotones of fire alarms overhead, Erin had stopped in her tracks, shrinking backwards, turning around, working her way back through the crowd of students, probably yelling, “Get out of my way!” But her peers were used to her yelling and, I imagine, had conceded without notice.
And now her name was being passed over walkie talkies across administrators and staff as missing while Lavetta fled back into the building to find her-and did find her- quietly and safely tucked behind the sea of fish and fluff of pillows oblivious to any concern extended on her behalf.
Erin needed time and space-to retreat, regroup, and reset. At times, her outbursts could require clearing the room to minimize the disruption to instruction. I’d signal to the class to grab their work and quickly move to the kitchen counters adjoining my classroom where I could continue teaching and still have eyes on Erin, dimming the lights, giving her space from sensory triggers innocently imposed by rustling papers, chiming voices, and constant movement across her field of vision. Not that Erin was the only student with sensory integration issues or the only one who prompted relocating the class momentarily to provide a bit of privacy and space needed to work through an issue-to preserve dignity; yet, her sensory needs were the most intense and could cause her to spiral downward for the rest of the day, if not kept in constant check with the help of implementing a sensory diet-a set of small breaks throughout the day for the purpose of implementing interventions to the sensory systems to provide either input (sensory information) or to provide space. a place, and time to dispel a sensory system when overloaded.
For Erin, her output included her vestibular system, and she would spin around in chairs on wheels (and I would let her) or on her belly on scooters in the gym before collapsing to reset with quiet music retuning her ears through headphones and quiet-sometimes colorful- lights rotating across her clothing as if to offer a quick touch of reassurance as she followed its path with her eyes…and touch. Along with the soft textures of pillow tops or soft blankets, she sought proprioceptive input by piling her desk supplies…all of them and heavier books… into her book bag and slinging the book bag onto her back to keep her centered.
On one occasion while observing a practicum student this past week, I was reminded of the reassuring power of the senses as I observed in that intermediate school self-contained classroom and was impacted by a petite young girl who was blind as she timidly re-entered her classroom in the middle of the lesson and explored her surroundings through her fingers. With her soft black hair combed evenly from her crown across her head in all directions, she tapped across the room to place her belongings at her table while running her fingers across the furniture. She turned asking about individual students by name. They answered kindly from a distance as she went to each one greeting them in words backed by gratefulness in being able to be close to them and touching their arms or hair. She explored her table and proceeded to unpack a bag she brought with her of small figures and stuffed animals while class instruction resumed with the cooperating teacher explaining to me she needed to settle into the class environment…and time and space to do so was granted. As she emerged shortly afterwards to go to her seat, her hair parted from her face and a big smile emerged.
That moment touched me.
As I drove that day back to Farmville, I embraced feelings of being in the hallways of an old school reflecting on the creaks of rubber sneakers and the faint smells of cafeteria food mixed with hints of cleaning supplies wafting across my senses bringing a sense of security and hope for normalcy for what I have always known and loved…being in schools…places in which I have found great purpose and fulfillment in life.
And in the midst of those memories that surfaced on my drive back to Farmville from that intermediate school and with permission granted to feel its environmental influence and to witness the social-emotional interactions between peers and teachers, I felt, for a brief moment, a close awareness of my Erin brush past my heart as she came to mind along with that special classroom by the kitchen in the old wing of Fluvanna Middle School…a place, a class, and a girl who all together impacted my life and perspective in mighty ways.
Being inside an old school brings the touch needed to reconnect to all that is relational and meaningful when reestablishing community.
Sorting it Out... 