And we sat. And we listened. Some may have internally rolled their eyes, or, like me, conducted a mental dialog on why we don't just build robots to teach the future of our country.
Of course, we all know why professors encourage us to act in a manner that seems cold or robotic. Children are imaginative; you never know what they may elaborate. Parents can forget that their beautiful child could exaggerate a story, and parents love their child, so they go into Mama Bear mode and demand a teacher is reprimanded for "hitting" their baby, when all the teacher did was pat the student’s hand as a non-verbal cue to pick up their pencil and write their name. It's not easy to calm an angry Mama or Papa bear. Even if they don't show it in a loving way, they really love their kid, and they need to feel confident that their child is safe. And they advocate the way they know how; sometimes that's a calm meeting, and sometimes that's trying to sue.
I teach in the DC area at a Title 1 school, in an area stricken with homelessness and unemployment. All of our kids receive free breakfast and most receive free or reduced lunch. Some of our kids consume the majority of their food on school property. Some of our kids take leftover breakfast or snack home to their siblings every day. Some of our kids come to us when they need longer pants or a shirt without a hole. They don't spend Saturdays spending their parents' money at the mall, and they don't get a new coat because black and puffy is "so last season."
I always call them “my kids.” Because they are. As I groggily wash my face in the morning, I wonder if Timmy will remember to wear his hat, because it's going to be a colder than usual day. As I throw together a half decent lunch, I wonder if Tommy got in trouble for going home with a frowny face on his behavior sheet yesterday. As I drive to work, I wonder if Billy will finally write a sentence without crying a bucket of tears, and I wonder if anyone in my class will comprehend the lesson on solids and liquids I'm required to teach them. I get to school, I make copies, I double check that I have my highlighters for students that need to trace letters, my OT gloves for my students that need extra help applying pressure when they write, and look in the pencil cup and see if I need to break more standard length pencils into inch- tall pencils for my babies that can't write with control with regular pencils. I check the snack cabinet for extra boxes of cereal for my kid that only eats cereal
and chips, no matter how good burgers smell or macaroni tastes. I check the classroom bathroom to make sure we have soap and toilet paper, and remember, not so fondly, the messes we've cleaned in this bathroom as my room staff and I potty trained several students.
And before I'm ready, my kids roll in. And every morning I try to greet them like I haven't seen them in 5 years. I hug them and ask how they are. I make them look me in the eyes, and I tell them I love them, and I also love when they make good choices, so let’s make this a good day. As they eat their breakfast in the classroom, I sit with them in a kiddie chair at a table 2 feet off the ground, and I eat my breakfast, too. I ask them what they did last night, if they saw Mommy or Daddy, what they had for dinner the night before, and if they ate anything before they got on the bus. I make sure I turn on the TV as soon as the Morning Announcements begin, and turn it off immediately after, because the blank blue screen sets one of my kid's teeth on edge. Even though his back faces the TV. I don't think any of this stuff matters to them, until I don't do it. If I'm sitting at my desk cutting something out or sending a quick email while the kids eat breakfast, they come over and try to sit on my lap. They whine or stare for a little, or they give me hugs and kisses until I give up. That's how they tell me they love me and that it matters when I'm not there. I hug them back, and I tell them I love them, and I tell them that if they wait until I finish, I will let them read me a story.
Despite the fact that I teach a self-contained autism kindergarten classroom, I still have what every kindergarten classroom has: a classroom behavior chart. It's Classroom Management 101 to have one of these in your room, but it's still the best trick in the book. The only problem is that it took a while for the behavior chart to work in my little room. My students on the spectrum didn't see at first why it mattered if they clipped down: they broke the rule, did what they wanted to do, clipped down. Big deal. Children with autism struggle with empathy, so it didn't bother them that Mrs. Leidner looked sad, and told them her heart makes a frowny face when they don't make a good choice. Sometimes they laughed when I said that, usually they just stared at me. But I told them that, as soon as they do the right thing, they will clip right back up. And eventually they did. And when they did, I always made sure to make the room erupt: excited cheers, a sticker, a hug, a good job song, and a clip going back up. And at the end of the day, I told them I loved them, I was proud of them, and mommy and daddy would be, too.
I can remember the turning point for each of my kids. It was an ordinary day, and then one of them wasn't following the rules, threw a pencil, or refused to raise their hand. And what was once me asking them to clip down followed by a quiet walk to the clip chart, was suddenly replaced with an explosion of tears and a look on their face like I just told them Santa does not exist. They wailed on their way to the chart, and hung their head as they clipped down. I tried not to smile or laugh. Not because I find their big, fat tears humorous, but because the moment had finally come: they felt a connection with me so strong that it hurt their heart to hurt my heart. That is a BIG DEAL for my little self-contained classroom. Instead of sending them back to their seat, I let them crawl into my lap. I would hold them and they would ask through their tiny sniffles if Mrs. Leidner was mad, and I ask them to look at my face and tell me what they thought. I would tell them I love them, but I don’t love their choice. So let’s fix our face and make a better choice. And when you make a better choice, you can clip back up. And everyone will clap and sing like we’re at the parade.
And now they know. They know that I love them, and that I keep my word. They still clip down, but they know how to fix it. They know they need to show me what making a good choice looks like. And I know they know, because if I forget to tell them to clip up, they remind me. They trust me to keep my word, and they trust they won’t get in trouble to remind me of my word. Because it matters to them that I think they deserve to clip up to “Role Model” or “Star Student.” It matters that I notice them giving their best effort. It matters because they know I love them, so they don’t want to disappoint me.
I tell them I love them. And I hug them. And if they give me a kiss on the cheek, I don’t tell them that isn’t appropriate for school. Because they love me, and they learned that if you love someone, you hug them and you kiss them and you snuggle them. And at the age of 6, I’m not going to mess with that formula. Because the fact that they see me as a person that deserves their hugs and kisses is a huge deal. Because students with autism can struggle to show affection. That’s not usually their love language. What they feel towards me are legitimate feelings. What was once completing a worksheet to put in my “finished work” tray is now a student shoving a paper in my face with a jumbo grin plastered cheek to cheek. They know their hard work brings me joy, and it brings them joy to know I’m proud. I know they know when I’m stressed or sad, because I get lots of extra hugs on those days. And I cannot put into words how HUGE that is.
So hug them as they get off and on the bus. Tell them you love them when they do something bad, and when they do something good. Sometimes I stop the learning on the carpet, and I tell each student what I love and appreciate about them. They love it. And they pay better attention afterwards. Students knowing you love and you care is the greatest behavior management system. At the end of the day, it beats any clip chart or behavior plan. Tell them you love them, on your hardest day, busiest day, best day, and worst day. It’s deep and it’s real, and my tiny humans know it.
