By Jonathan S. Williams
I have spent close to my entire life as a student.
It all started at 3 when I attended the Central Islip Church of Christ Nursery School on Long Island, New York. The latest chapter of my educational journey was a master”s degree in multicultural education at Eastern University in Philadelphia.
Until recently I was pretty confident that my 20-plus years of education taught me all I needed to know. I can find Eritrea on a map. I can answer half the questions on Jeopardy! When I”m in Denver, I always know the mountains are west of town. Yes, those years of hard work and the thousands of dollars my parents spent really paid off.
And so I put my education to work””as a fifth grade teacher in an inner-city elementary school in Philadelphia. Not long ago I wrote out my lesson plans for the coming week, my new diploma sitting on the dining room table. I looked up to admire the visual reminder of my accomplishment and then looked at the curriculum required by the district for the days ahead. What I saw almost made me fall out of my chair.
My pulse quickened. I began to feel hot. I looked more closely at the curriculum: “Students will learn and be able to identify present participles.”
“Present participles! What in the world are those?” I began to panic. I began to curse the Central Islip nursery school. “How could they not teach me present participles?” I shook my fist at all the teachers who left me so bereft of essential knowledge. I went upstairs to find my wife.
“Present participles are simply derivatives of present verbs,” she said. “So the verb “˜to go” has the present participle “˜going.”” (My wife obviously attended a better preschool than I had attended.)
Without Focus
I was ready for school the next morning. I would tame the mother beast. I would teach present participles. I began my stellar introduction, but my students were not focused. How dare them? I thought.
I looked at Phillip, who appeared to be sound asleep at his desk. “Phillip!” I yelled. “Time to get up and learn.” He lifted his head long enough for me to see the tears in his eyes, and then he put his head back down.
I looked over at Malika. Her eyes betrayed her story, but she put it into words anyway. “The police busted into my room last night. They arrested my brother for slangin” rock” (selling the drug crack). “Mr. Williams. I didn”t go back to sleep.”
“I didn”t eat breakfast,” Erica cried out, comparing her empty stomach to Malika”s tribulations. “We had to sleep at my Grandmom”s because my mother”s ex-boyfriend keeps comin” to the house even though my mom has called the police on him over and over again. So now we sleep at Grandmom”s, and I have to rush to take a different bus every morning.”
I thought of my own fifth-grade experience, when my biggest problem was being embarrassed with my Star Wars lunch box. I grew quiet. Then the phone rang.
Phillip”s mother was on the other end. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Williams. Phillip”s sister was in an accident over the weekend. They had to amputate her leg. Phillip might not be himself.” I hung up the phone.
The suffering of a lifetime filled my little West Philadelphia classroom on that cold winter morning. My learning was inadequate. There was no language I could speak that would convey the pain I felt for those students that day.
New Learning
“Who else would like to share?” I asked my class. I wanted to know the hardships they faced. Maybe they could learn from each other”s painfully young wisdom. I hoped at least one would speak of some overwhelming delight.
Present participles could wait. My education was just beginning.
Jonathan S. Williams is a fifth grade teacher in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
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