The Shoulder Rule

Meg Parkhurst

“Fuck you!” Joe yelled as he walked across the tops of the desks and out of my reach. The rest of my 6th grade class stood off to the sides of the room, trying to stay out of the situation. Some were keeping themselves physically safe, as it was never clear when Joe might throw something, or push something out of his way to get where he wanted to go. Other students smirked, enjoying the spectacle that Joe was creating, relishing any time in the day that provided a distraction from routine academic work.

As a brand new teacher, I was looping from fifth to sixth grade with a class that had a terrible reputation. I had been warned about Joe, but my first year with him had gone smoothly. I wouldn’t say Joe was the most productive student, but he also didn’t cause too many problems, and sadly, that was more than any other teacher had ever expected of him. His flat out refusal to produce work, or even sit at a desk for any prolonged period of time, was usually the catalyst for his outbursts. I found that if he had time to work with his hands, sort papers, sharpen pencils, or reorganize the classroom library, he often reintegrated himself into the classroom, and was able to key into what was going on academically and begin to work. Though this strategy was successful for almost a full year, it didn’t last into his sixth grade journey.

This incident was one of the many that occurred in my second year with Joe. I dreaded coming into school because I never knew what kind of a day Joe would have. As soon as he stepped in the room, I could tell by the look on his face if it would be a good day or a bad day. And if it was going to be bad, I could never anticipate how badly it would go. When I anticipated his mood, I walked on eggshells with the whole class, trying to avoid conflict and discomfort not only with Joe, but with every student in my classroom.

Joe’s home life wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t even close. Department of Human Services had been involved with his family several times, but sadly, there wasn’t enough “evidence” to legally change Joe’s living situation. In order for Joe to be successful in school, he needed to feel safe and cared for. The need to be accepted and liked by adults and peers is so critical. Creating a classroom environment that consciously demonstrates and practices respect, allows students like Joe to feel cared for. Ignoring the need for this makes other kinds of teaching and learning impossible. We need to teach and manage the classroom in a way that helps students learn to respect and empathize for one another.

In my classroom, Joe made a mockery of my behavior management skills. Anger, embarrassment, and frustration shined through on my face as Joe continued to defy me. I was at the end of my rope. Tears were welling in my eyes, but I fought them off. I was in despair, unsure of what to do next in order to regain some semblance of control of the room.

I knew at this point that Joe’s needs were not being met within the walls of my classroom. Sure, I could blame it on what he dealt with before and after school on a daily basis, but that certainly wouldn’t change his behavior. What could I do as a teacher to make his education important? Right now, Joe was in survival mode, striking out to get attention in any way possible. Yet still, I had reached the end of my rope, I was unsure of how to proceed in a way that would respect Joe, but also maintain sanity within the walls of my classroom.

“Joe, you need to go down to the office immediately.” This was at least my tenth request, so it seemed futile that I made this announcement again, when the response had escalated from silent refusal to cursing and running across desks. But this time it worked. I don’t know why, perhaps Joe had given up the fight. Maybe he had seen the signs on my face, he knew he had my attention, as well as the attention of twenty other students. He had his time in the sun, and he was ready to resign.

This behavior was typical of what I had heard about Joe from other teachers, but I couldn’t help but feel like I had failed him. There must be something I should have done in my classroom to make it a more productive learning environment.

“Fine.” Joe yelled, and bolted out of the room. I walked out of my modular classroom to keep an eye on him, as if my watching him would make the difference between him actually going down to the office or just running away. The openness of the space between the modular classroom and the building seemed too big, like there were too many places for Joe to go. Joe ran, apparently as eager to get away from me as I was to see him leave. As he turned the corner to head into the building, Joe looked back. His face was no longer red and angry. He had given up, and his eyes sent a silent apology through the air.

I got the distinct feeling in that moment that Joe was sorry, but I also felt his sense of displacement. He seemed like an outsider. A person floating through life misunderstood, with no one to relate to or sympathize with him, and certainly no one to attend to him emotionally or socially. As I stood in the small closet-like hallway of the modular classroom, I cried. I was a total failure.

In that year, my second as a teacher, I followed the curriculum strictly. Every day started out with students quietly working on Daily Oral Language on the front board. Most of them felt comfortable in the classroom most of the time, and aside from Joe, I felt like I was doing a pretty good job. Students turned in papers on time, and when they didn’t, they would receive a zero in the grade book. Students who routinely completed their work and achieved at high levels received good grades, and others did not. We moved through the curriculum quickly, and I paid little attention to the whys.

As I reflect on those first two years with my notoriously terrible class, I wonder how well we really knew each other. I don’t think students had a sense of place within a classroom community. Rather, they saw their education as a set of hoops to jump through. A circus act that required one to follow the rules, and perhaps at the end of the quarter they would be rewarded by placement on the honor role. My question now is, does that really make a difference? Did getting those good grades, and correct papers help them learn anything? Did it make them better people? Will it help them function as individuals that will make a difference in the world? I want to create people that are caring, people that are motivated to think about their behavior, and how it may affect others. Once they are able to think about their behavior, think about more than just themselves, and they have created and participated in this community, can they be pushed to think about the problems and dilemmas there are to study in the world.

Now, I try to get to know my students. By better understanding them as individuals, and allowing them to understand one another, I struggle to create meaning for students, while still meeting the needs of state and district standards.

Four years later, the routine in my classroom looks very different. I try to make an effort to reach each student emotionally, as well as help them attend to one another’s emotional and social needs. Students are out of their seats talking to each other, some are working at their desks, unpacking bags, or chatting to the person next to them. I have the distinct feeling that they know and respect one another, and they are willing to take risks, and therefore find comfort in their peers. They see the classroom as a space filled with acceptance and love. It is only after they see the classroom in this way that they can feel free to take risks as learners. I don’t get through as much of the curriculum as I used to. I don’t have nearly as many tests or written homework assignments as I used to, but my classroom is more productive than ever.

Everyday, we start with time set aside to attend to each other’s needs. In our regular morning meeting, two or three students were selected at random to share something with the group. Since it was the end of a long break, every student was eager to share, and so we agreed that each student would share a highlight of his or her holiday vacation. As we went around the room, students shared the usual events, family gatherings, presents they received, and places they visited.

Heads turned to Todd, as his share began. Todd was a quiet student who didn’t say much. He came from a rough home life, and didn’t ever talk about it in school. He’s the type of student who looks like he’s not paying attention, and never completes his homework, but when it comes time for the test, he’s the first one to get every answer right. He usually wasn’t one to share at meeting, and passing was always an option, but on this day, Todd spoke in his steady monotonous voice, “ My dog died over break.”

He burst into tears. Not tears rolling out of his eyes, but sobs, only broken by frantic gasps for air. It was clear that he couldn’t control his emotions. He continued to sob as the whole class watched him. No one was sure what to do, including me. Finally, I spoke, “I’m so sorry Todd. That’s really hard. If there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know.” I continued to speak, rattling off every consolation I could think of. As I spoke, the rest of the class sat, some offering up their own condolences, and others just waiting for the awkward moment to pass. Todd continued to sob; heavy cries and deep gasps for air.

I walked over to Todd and put my hand on his back. I leaned down and spoke to him, “I’m so sorry Todd, Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make this better for you. I know how hard this is.” Then I walked back to my seat in the circle. Our circle sharing continued, and Todd continued to cry in his seat. Looks of concern painted the faces of many students. Others left their seats to subtly ask Todd if he was all right, or to share stories of their own pet’s death. Todd continued to sob, getting quieter as the meeting went on. He was clearly trying to stop, but his tears seemed uncontrollable. As we all left morning meeting area for our seats, other students walked over to Todd, giving him a gentle pat on the back or shoulder, bending over to whisper what I assumed were words of condolence in his ear. Todd stayed where he was. As I got out of my seat, I stood in the line-like formation, waiting for my turn to speak to Todd, “Take your time, and join us when you’re ready.”

The rest of the class carefully moved chairs back to desks, and took out their math notebooks to get ready for the next subject. Todd’s chair remained part of a circle that was no longer there. He was hunched over, hands cupped to cover his face, back undulating with the rhythm of his quiet cries. He was now in the circle alone, but I felt confident that he was comforted in his time of need. I felt good about the way I handled the situation, but more than that, I was incredibly proud of the caring and concern that Todd’s fellow students exhibited. It took him several minutes to regain his composure enough to move back to his desk, but when he did he was ready for math. The death of his dog still no doubt on his mind, his math notebook was out and a look of engagement took over his face as he worked to catch up with the lesson.

The atmosphere in the room didn’t change. No one laughed as Todd wiped the tears from his eyes. No one gave him a sidelong glance of disdain. No one whispered to a neighbor. Every student seemed to empathize with Todd’s struggle, and they wanted to make him feel better than he already did. I had a strong sense that every student was aware of their actions, and reactions towards Todd, and they did everything they could to ease his obvious pain.

Only after these needs were taken care of, could we proceed with the academic learning of the day. The math, spelling, social studies, reading, and writing still left in the day would have been meaningless if it weren’t for the attention paid to Todd in his weakest moment. He was able to suffer publicly, yet still be respected by his peers. I can’t be certain that he felt any better about the death of someone so important in his life, but I am almost certain that sharing his grief allowed him to participate academically in a school day that might otherwise have been considered a wash.

Attending to Todd’s emotional needs were part of the routine of the classroom. Students were accustomed to accepting the details of share time, and had seen empathy modeled during previous share times. It was my hope that these skills would transfer to other situations, that students would be able to show respect and caring for one another in less obvious situation, outside of morning meeting. On that morning, there was a clear tension in the room. How do we respond to one another in a caring way? Is it right to keep our distance, or do we jump in and console someone in need?

It’s hard to decide how to react to others, to treat them the way we would want to be treated, while still respecting the boundaries established by the school culture. While Todd’s share presented a clear tension in the room, everyone reacted in their own way. No one was sure exactly what Todd needed in that moment, but almost everyone tried the approach they felt would work best. When a student knows what kind of attention they need, is it always right for the teacher or the peers to provide it?

While teaching sixth grade, I had a student who notoriously looked out for others. Mimi was cautious in her actions so that no one would perceive her as being mean or rude. She tried hard to include others, and made sure to always look for the people that were at the bottom of the social ladder, people that really needed friends.

In my classroom, she showed me, and the rest of the class, what it looks like to be open and raw with one’s emotions. If we don’t bring these emotions and feelings into the classroom, we cheat students out of an education that is relevant to their lives. Education must be part of their lives, and that means not leaving emotions and feelings at the door. Building relationships with students, and teaching them how to care for one another is an essential step to creating lessons, and making content relevant to their lives.

It was spring, and we were reading Bridge to Terebithia as a class. I had resorted to reading many of the chapters aloud, as there were several students in the class whose only chance at comprehending the text was through listening. We were all involved in the story, and had already had several meaningful conversations about the intricacies of the text. The main characters, Jess and Leslie, develop a close friendship, which comes crashing to a halt when Leslie dies, “‘Your girl friend’s dead, and Momma thought you was dead, too.’” As the words came out of my mouth, my eyes made a sweep across the room. Most students were in shock; it felt good to see how invested students had become in the story. Then I looked over at Mimi, she had tears in her eyes, and her face looked broken. She stood up, and began to walk over to me. At this point, I had stopped reading, and I watched, along with the rest of the class, as Mimi walked towards me, her tears now escalated into a soft whimper.

“Can I sit on your lap?” She asked, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear her. I wasn’t sure what the rest of the class would do about this, a group of ten year olds, all fluctuating along a spectrum of maturity, from fantasy play and Yu Gi Oh cards, to Cosmopolitan magazine and rated R movies. “I just feel like I need a hug.” She continued, tears still in her eyes. This would definitely be against the “shoulder rule” that we had been asked to follow, making sure that if we were to make physical contact with a student, it had to be on his or her shoulders, and at that, only with one of our hands. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I felt that it was important to validate Mimi’s need. On the other hand, I would be clearly breaking a rule I knew was in place. Was it really appropriate to nurture a child in this way? Would someone walking in misunderstand the circumstances of this situation?

“Sure,” I responded, ignoring the thoughts that ran through my head. Mimi crawled into my lap, and snuggled into me. As I picked up the book to continue to read, I looked back at my class. Everyone was watching, but it seemed that no one was judging. There was a silent acceptance of the need for comfort at this moment, and no one was going to deny Mimi the need to curl up in someone’s arms in response to a horrifying and sad moment in a book.

It was because of Mimi’s openness that she was able to become part of the book, to let the book touch her in a profoundly honest way. As students watched this, they observed the rawness of her feelings, and they respected her. They didn’t mock her or roll their eyes, rather they understood on some level the intense connection she was having with the text, and they respected that.

This connection with the text, a deep and real emotional response to learning, is something to strive for in education. When I can make connections with students, I can better adjust the learning environment to respond to the diverse emotional and social needs of my students. They are better able to learn when their emotional and social needs are met. It’s important to me that I not only respond to these needs in students, but also model appropriate social responses for my students. If they can learn to create respectful and caring environments, they will be met with success throughout their lives.

How do we connect with students in an honest way, so school is a part of their lives, an extension of their humanness and not a place where they have to follow a set of rules and jump through hoops for the purpose of a grade? As teachers, we must pay attention to the child, not just a prescribed list of standards approved by the legislature for each grade level. We may never be able to measure the importance of human response, or give a grade for good citizenship, but we can continue to teach and model these skills in the classroom, so students can make the world they live in a better place for themselves and others.

Teaching is about the personal, about making connections with students, seeing them as individual human beings and letting them see me as a human being as well. As teachers, our job is about more than just showing up every day to impart our knowledge on the students in our classroom. We have to create an experience that positively touches every student in the room.

Discussion Questions

How can educators attend to the emotional well-being of students in order to maximize learning?
How does modeling care and respect for others impact democracy?
How do we teach students in our classrooms to care for one another so they may transfer that knowledge to life experiences?

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