"Dad, can I ask you a question?" my son asks.
"What's a tampon?"
I'm speeding down the Taconic State Parkway like many insane sports dads, focused on getting my son to his tournament game on time. We have a tendency to leave late for everything. Even after I give my son a half hour departure warning... then a 20, 10, and 5 minute departure update warning, at go time, he's still on the couch, playing on his tablet, in bare feet and shorts. And, of course, I feel responsible, like it's my fault that I allowed him to be late.
After a flurry of shouts and rushing, we're in the car, two minutes later than I wanted to leave. Two minutes. And now I'm staring at the GPS like madman, seeing if I can bring that arrival time down to the two minutes I want to arrive at.
Like I said, insane.
My son's recovered from the push to leave. He turns those emotional corners quickly. I'm still obsessed with the GPS arrival time. He's watching the world go past, outside his window when he asks the question above.
"You don't need to know about that right now," I say, as I try to figure out if I should take the Taconic to the Bronx River or continue onto the Sprain Brook. I think I've answered the question. But then my altruist parental mind takes over. He's asking the question, so he knows something about it. If he doesn't get the answer from me, he'll ask someone else. And that someone else might not offer as responsible an answer as I hope to.
"Why do you want to know?" I ask.
"When I was at summer camp, someone dared me to ask a girl what a period was."
I veer into the next lane, correct myself, and refocus.
"Did you ask the girl?"
"No!" he exclaims, like how dare I even question that. "But I think I know what a tampon is. Because when the kid asked me to ask about a girl's period, um, it's like, um... it's like when a girl bleeds out of her... privates." he doesn't ask if he's right, he just puts it out there.
"That's more or less what its purpose is," I say, feeling totally inadequate.
"Dad, why does a girl bleed out of her privates?"
And now we're into it, the birds and the bees talk. Except he's less than a month away from twelve. Twelve! I thought tis talk didn't happen until Fifteen or sixteen. But here we are, and I'm about to explain how a girl's menstrual cycle works going 70 miles per hour down a New York State parkway.
"Each month a young woman's body prepares to make a baby. The body builds a... home inside the young woman, a place where the baby can be made and grow."
"And that happens every month?" he asks.
"So, why does it bleed?"
"Well, if a baby is not made, all the stuff that was made for the baby needs to get... tossed out. Or it goes bad if it's not used. So the body flushes it out. And that is what bleeds out."
"Does it hurt?" he asks. "It must hurt."
"It's very uncomfortable. They get cramps and it makes them very... moody."
"Oh." He goes quiet for a second. "Do they get a period if they're pregnant?"
"No," I say. "Once a girl gets pregnant..., Look, you're playing a good team today. This is the semi-finals. If you win, you'll be playing in the championships!"
"Don't change the subject, Dad. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I can youtube it."
"Okay, so once a young woman gets pregnant, everything that her body made to make the baby gets used. So it's needed and the body keeps it. So nothing gets thrown out. You understand? The body keeps it all. And... the human body is an amazing thing. It's very complicated." I pause, check the GPS. "We're almost here. Can you tell me where to turn?"
"Up ahead, 0.6 miles, you're going to make a right."
"So, does a girl still bleed when she's pregnant?"
"Woman. A woman does not. Her body makes the baby. Then the baby comes out."
I do not dare get into all the details of the miracle of childbirth, and how many women and couples have suffered through miscarriages or one failed attempt after another to have a baby; I dare not mention the millions of young women who do get pregnant when they don't want to. I do not dare get into that with my 11 year old son. I keep the conversation as simple as possible. I am certain that I am failing in my explanation. I am worried as hell that I'm putting images in his head that he will obsess over. I am worried that he will be thinking about periods and pregnancy instead of remembering how to run the motion offense or know his position on defense. I envision a boy standing in the low-post, rebounds bouncing off his head as he scans the crowd for young women who might at that very moment be having their period. Because he would. He would wonder what that looks like and how to identify it.
"Dad, how do babies get made?"
"Oh, look! We're here!"
Middle school years are hell. And 7th grade is the middle year of the hell years. 7th grade is the middle child year of three hellish children.
Let me break it down:
6th graders are the youngest child. They're still eager to please, still listening to their parents and teachers. They're still love-able. An so we spoil them.
The 8th graders is the oldest child of the three. 8th graders are more independent creatures. These kids are finally asking the question: who am I and what makes me, well... me? It can be weird and awkward and painful. But a real conversation between parent and child is possible. A word of warning, there will be grunting and eye-rolling. Nonetheless, conversations that make sense with authentic give-and-take are achievable.
The 7th grader is the middle child of the middle school family. They are the center of hell; they are the eye of the storm.
The 7th grade child is essentially insane. Out of their minds. And certainly, way too cool to listen to anything their parents have to say. Trust me, it's not you, it's them!
As my friend Franky so perfectly put it, "when she was 10 years old, I was still the hero of my daughter's life. She asked me all kinds of questions and she thought I knew everything. Then she turned 11 and I suddenly became an idiot."
Franky's daughter, like most girls, arrived at this 'hellish insanity' a little before 7th grade. What an 11 or 12 year old girl's friends say and do and think becomes more valid than anything their parents could ever say, do, or think. Once they hit that level, the hero-parent quickly fades to the back of their 'who matters to me' line up.
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be replaced by Chelsea, the know-it-all spoiled little bitch from my daughter's class? Seriously. It's all I hear - 'Chelsea said this and Chelsea said that. And Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.' Fuck Chelsea!"
- anonymous fed-up parent.
7th grade boys, on the other hand, have no clue what's going on. Their brains get sucked up into some intergalactic, alien-controlled, black hole in deep deep space. They become unbelievably ridiculous and silly, while also being unbelievably moody. They're like the morose and edgy Shrek combined with the high-spirited, ready-for-anything Donkey. And you will never know which personality is about to come out. Until it does.
In a classroom, the boys bond with the boys and the girls bind with the girls. Typically. Even if the boys like the girls or the girls like the boys there remains this allegiance to the pact.
That said, this is the year that the girls claim their affection for boys. The boys are not ready for it. They don't know what to do.
Once I had a bonafide couple in my class. A young 7th grade boy and a 7th grade girl. They both came from wrecked households and were clinging to each other like lifeboats. They remained together for at least two years. It was very sweet. They were ahead of their time, but through awful necessity.
I'll leave that for another post.
In summation, 7th grade is the year of the changeling. Your son or daughter will morph from whatever sweet 6th grade they once inhabited into a whirling dervish of emotion, grunts, moans, whines and potty mouth. It ain't pretty.
Boys will lose all control of their organizational abilities. DO NOT, I repeat, Do Not go into their back pack alone. It is dark and scary. There will be clumps of papers, some of them vitally important for their classes; there will be sticky things, old food, and unidentifiable objects. Power-washing their backpack is recommended at season's end.
For the love of god, do not go in there alone.
Girls become obsessed with the in-crowd and who is popular. And sadly, many will do whatever it takes to be accepted.
Warning: watch what your daughter wears to school. Chances are, the hoodie and sweater or long sleeve t-shirt they leave the house in is not what they will walk around the school wearing. They will have a spare wardrobe somewhere in their bag or beneath the clothes they leave the house in. And that spare wardrobe is carefully chosen to reveal whatever assets they choose to show off - midriff, cleavage, legs and/or derriere. They are seeking attention that will get them accepted or attention. This attempt sometimes backfires and they gain negative labels from their peers which can be devastating.
There was once an incident in which a 7th grade girl won the affection of a boy away from his previous 7th grade girlfriend. The previous girlfriend rounded up a group of her friends. They lured the other girl into an ambush and beat her badly enough to send her to the hospital. When she returned to school, the initial girl had to be escorted by security between classes for her safety.
That is how serious it can get.
Arm yourself with support from family and friends and possibly outside counseling; your daughter may need it. And so will you!
You can do a lot to prevent a bad experience for your child by monitoring what she is wearing when she is actually in school.
But do not worry. Millions of parents have navigated this dark valley before you. You are not alone. In fact, in my former "Back-to-School" nights as a 7th grade teacher, I stopped discussing curriculum at all and took a poll of which parents in the room had already gone through the 7th grade experience with an older child and which had not. Then I created a support group. I told the parents that their children were about to be abducted by aliens and may be returned by June. No promises. Sure enough, later in the year, many of those parents returned to thank me for the 'heads-up'. My little tip helped them prepare for the rocky road ahead. And hopefully it will help you, as well.
You are not alone. There is help. Reach out, ask questions, and seek-out support groups. You will need it. We all did. We are here to help.
More to come. Thanks for reading.
Sterling Shepard is the unsung hero of the New York Giants’ wide receiving dynamic duo. At 24 years old, in his 3rd season out of Oklahoma, Sterling is as promising a player as one might want. Over 3 seasons, he has caught 168 passes for a total of 1,987 yards. He has 13 career touchdowns. This year he’s already pulled in 44 catches and 3 touchdowns. He has stepped up when his dynamic duo superstar, Odell Beckham Jr., has not. And Shepard has always had his back.
Beckham is in his 5th season in the league. He has caught 382 passes for a total of 5,356 yards and 43 touchdowns. When he is hot he’s one of the best in the league. When he’s off, he is fiery.
When Beckham won his record-breaking contract, Sterling Shepard, celebrated with him. Beckham now makes 90 million dollars over 5 years. That’s almost 20 million a year. Shepard makes just under 6 million over 4 years. That’s about 1.5 million a year. Beckham is a better player than Shepard. And contracts rarely represent true value. But that’s a big difference.
When asked about Beckham’s passionate speeches to the team, calling them out on their play and demanding that they step up to the kind of game they all know they can play, Shepard stood by Odell’s words. In a locker room interview, Shepard said, “Everybody felt it. It was genuine. Things get taken out of context sometimes.”
As wingmen go, Sterling Shepard is proving to be one of the best to a superstar receiver who is often in the limelight. Shepard lives in Odell’s shadow. But he’s not overshadowed y the Giants’ larger-than-life receiver. Number 13 may have the salary and the highlight reel to back up his play. But Shepard is steadily there, steadily there, steadily there.
Just as Sterling’s father was there for his son until he wasn’t.
Sterling Shepard’s father, Derrick, was a walk-on star for the Oklahoma Sooner’s football team. he was undersized but became the team captain. He played on the 1985 Sooner National Championship team, then played for five years in the NFL with Dallas and Washington, and playing on a Superbowl winning team. Derrick returned to Oklahoma as a graduate assistant and a coach. He gained recognition for his coaching skills. He was a natural. Derrick Shepard eventually took a full-time position at the University of Wyoming.
A couple of weeks into the job, Derrick died of sudden heart failure at the age of 35. Sterling was 6.
The Shepard family was devastated. Ever since Sterling was included as part of the Sooner home. He was included in their games and practices until about the age of 14. In high school, Sterling Shepard started standing out on his own merit, gaining the attention of several college football programs around the country. He wore the same number that his father wore – number 3. Eventually, Shepard played for his Dad’s Alma mater.
Sterling Shepard may not yet be making the money he deserves, but perhaps he’s playing for something more important than money. His mother believes that, even though Sterling’s father, Derrick, never got to see his son play football, he would be so proud of him. Sterling agrees, saying “to see what point I’m at now [in my career as a football player], I don’t think he could help but be happy.”
We’re sure he is. Not just for the player his son, Sterling Shepard, is, but for the man, he is as well.
What price can you put on that?
A New Profoortalkline.com post. And a good one!
I've been writing a column for ProFootballTalkLine.com. Here's the kicker, if you will. I was hired to write about the New York Giants. But I don't know anything about the New York Giants. I am a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. I have been a Steelers fan since I was 13, which is umm... a whole bunch of years ago.
So, what does a skilled writer and teacher do when they need to write about something that they don't know anything about? They do some research.
Yes, there's that dirty word: research!
It's a word that, in my experience, students despise and run from.
To students, the word "research" means "work". But to a writer in need of a story, "research" equals "not sounding like a total idiot when I write about the New York Giants for a website that caters to hard-core Football fans."
And when you want to know about sports and teams the best resource is young people. I mean, who has the time to follow sports teams, with their daily deals and ins and outs like a kid shuffling school and extra curricular activities?
Okay, so there are some adults who follow sports like religion. In fact, some pray to the god of their favorite teams more fervently than they do in any house of worship.
So I went to the source.
I asked around between kids and parents. I discovered who the young New York Giants football fans were and went for it.
I now have a team of young analysts out there, between the ages of 10 and 16.
I do my own research, of course. but seeking out those who know more than I do makes me look intelligent when I write my own columns.
And as long as I look good, that's all that matters, right?
In all sincerity, I am grateful to the young devoted fans out there. I recall being that dedicated to a team. I recall having a bedroom plastered with posters of my favorite players.
Being a kid is a great thing. You get to be an expert in a topic before life and obligations fractures your focus. So, to all the young fans out there, stay committed for as long as you can.
It's a beautiful thing!
I took a friend and his son to a New York Giants preseason game. My friend and I are long-time Steelers fans. but his son, Jack, is a 10-year-old Giant superfan. The kid has been studying the Giants. At the age of 8, living in a Steeler-nation family, he bravely confessed his Giants allegiance to his parents. These were the early signals of leadership quality.
Since I possessed the tickets, Jack decided that I was a huge football fan. I'm not.
I remember lots of great teams and great plays from when I was a teenager and a Steeler fan, because then, I had the time and the commitment to be a fan.
"I'm gonna pound my shirt when I see Cleveland Brown's fans, Steve," Jack said, wearing his #15, Brandon Marshall shirt from last year's team. "I see any Brown's fans, I'm gonna pound my chest and yell COMMITTED! I'm gonna pound my chest an yell Committed, Steve!"
Jack speaks in a loop until what he is saying is acknowledged.
As we climbed the escalators to the 300 tier he said "I don't think anyone else is wearing a Brandon Marshall shirt, Steve." he looked around and repeated it. "I'm the only one wearing a Brandon Marshall shirt."
When we climbed to our perch in section 332, Jack remarked "these are great seats, Steve. Great seats," and sat down next to me, as far away from his Dad as possible. I would soon find out why.
We took in the stadium in all it's glory. There really wasn't a bad seat in the place. As high as we were, we could see the players on the field and make out what was happening without having to rely on the video screens.
"You think OBJ's gonna have a breakout game, Steve?" Jack was refering to the Giant's colorful star wide receiver, Odell Beckam Jr. OBJ. "I think OBJ's gonna have a breakout game."
"Jack," I said, "this is pre-season. They don't play their stars during pre-season. Teams use pre-season to see who they can use in what situations and to make last cut decisions."
"Yeah, yeah. I know," Jack said. "I just wanna see OBJ have a breakout game."
Here's the thing: Jack is a kid with learning disabilities. School does not come easily to him. At least it didn't. his parent's, who are huge advocates for their children, researched his needs and the barriers he had to being the learner he could be. They got him the services he needed.
Still. Jack was an outsider who did not make friends or fit in easily.
And then he discovered football.
Since joining the football team, Jack has changed. his confidence level shot through the roof. his ability to make himself heard was no longer an issue. And his ability to learn? The kid knows more stats than a Sunday afternoon commentator getting fed his or her info through a monitor or earpiece.
Football gave Jack a purpose. And he's running with it.
The Brown's emerged from their locker room to boos and jeers and a couple of cheers from the bold Brown's fans.
A lovely young woman sang the Star Spangled Banner beautifully.
The crowd applauded.
The coin toss.
"It's Sequon Barkley time!" Jack shouted, referring to rookie running-back sensation. "It's Sequon Barkley time, right Steve? Right? It's Barkley time!" he was bouncing in his seat. "BARKLEY TIME!!"
Sure enough the rookie back carried for a sudden 39-yard romp. Jack was jumping on his seat. Slapping hands with everyone around him and smiling big-time at the Brown's fans sitting close by.
But alas, the opening promise of Giants dominance was short-lived.
And here's where kids are more resilient than the average fan.
Like I said, I'm not much of a football fan. But in Jack's eyes, because I had tickets, I was elevated to the status of UberFan. At least someone he could talk to about the Giants.
Did I mention that I was a Steelers fan?
After Giants starting quarterback, 37 year old Eli Manning, did his thing, backup quartback David Webb entered the game and proceeded to suck in a Giant way, which Jack's Dad was happy to mention.
"Jack, your team needs a backup QB. Manning's got a year left. Maybe two. Maybe. Outside chance."
Jack's dad went to get some snacks and drinks. Jack leaned into me and said, "the Giants are really putting on a shit show, Steve. Aren't they? They're really putting on a shit show."
It was obvious to me how much fun jack was having letting those words roll off his tongue. It's a phrase with built-in alliteration and flow. And the word 'shit.'
"Don't think your Dad wants you to talk like that," I said.
"I know," jack said.
"It's the first pre-season games. They're not going to play their stars. They're looking at what the new players have to offer and what they have to work with. They try out new strategies, test out some new plays. It's not about winning."
"I get it. Can I just say one thing, though?"
"Giants are putting on a real shit show!"
When the game was coming to a close and it became crystal clear that the Giants were not going to win the day, Jack's positive attitude found a way to spin the night.
"At least we're at a football game, right Steve? At least we're at a real football game, Steve."
"You're right, Jack. It's great."
"It is, Steve. It's great."
Great. That a kid with learning issues can find a way to master the content and knowledge of something he loves. That's great!
I love being a teacher.
And I get kids that hate school.
Because I hated school when I was in it.
Couldn't think of anything more pointless.
The world was outside those windows and walls.
There was more happening on the lawn than inside any classroom.
More happening in the bathroom,
in the locker rooms,
on the basketball court,
on the soccer field.
On the streets.
In my house.
That's where life was happening.
I get the kids today who hate school.
And because I get them, because I am honest with them,
they are honest and open with me.
This is what they tell me:
Why do we have to all come to the same building to learn?
Why do we all have to be in the same room? Why can't I sit outside?
Why can't I be in the library while y'all up in here?
Why can't I be... anywhere else?
I can learn from anywhere. Helloo... wifi...
Can't we learn from home?
On a beach?
In a car.
We work from those locations, why can't we learn in those locations?
Why isn't all educational learning personalized? Kids are not robots.
They are not the same.
This is what they tell me:
Why do I have to know math? Why can't math people who love math learn it and I will learn about what I love:
Sustainable Cooking Practices!
Why do I need to know how to write an essay? I'm never going to write an essay.
I'm going to write tweets and posts that will establish my brand and educate the public about the benefits of my vision.
Do I need a topic sentence to do that?
I promise you, my writing will have a topic and a searing focus. It will inform and persuade and I will have the evidence to back it up or my mission will fail.
And I will learn from my mistakes.
Or I won't.
And I'll do something else while someone more passionate and committed than me will complete the mission.
They will build the brand.
They will do the heavy lifting.
They will get it right.
Then I will go to work for them.
Why can't I just learn from my trying and failing?
Why can't I just go out there and do it?
Just let me try.
Just let me try.
Just let me try it!
Just let me... be me.
Good teaching is helping kids follow their passions and become masters of their own interests.
A lot of what teaching is, is knowing when to get out of the way.
While my ADHD 10 year old son was practicing his new favorite activity/sport, rollerblading, I served my own adult ADD by pulling out my phone and downloading a trailer for a new Netflix show entitled Atypical.
We are in the middle of our block. He’s skating, I'm sort-of watching It’s darkening, almost night. Perfect time to watch a trailer on my phone.
Brief synopsis without any spoilers, the show centers around a relatively high functioning autistic or Asperger’s teenager in high school whose sole desire is to have a relationship with a girl.
As I’m watching the trailer my son skates over. He’s a little tired from doing spins and tricks. He catches his breath by resting his arm around me and we watch together. He’s immediately wrapped up in the show's trailer.
Moments later, the main character says, “at some point in my lifetime I want to see boobs.”
My son says, “Dad, I want to see boobs, too.”
“You don’t need to see boobs.”
“Have you ever seen boobs?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation with you right now,” I say, chickening out. “You’re ten.”
“I want to see boobs.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I can if I want to.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“Have you ever seen mommy’s boobs?”
“I do not want to talk about this with you,” I say.
“Just tell me!”
“I’m not talking about it!”
“I’ll take that as a No!” he says and skates off triumphantly.
I often experience financial insecurity.
I worry about how I will cover all my bills. I worry about how we will give our kids the best education, repair things when they break, or find the time to concentrate on the work that will improve our lifestyle.
I never seem to have enough money to do or get or buy all the things that I want for my family.
Look closer at the wording in the above lines: "never able to get or buy all the things that I want."
I'm talking about things.
I'm talking about things that I want.
Things are not necessities. And wants are not what we need.
My family has everything that they need. I have everything that I need. It's what we do with what we have that makes the difference.
Similarly, my own inner critic just won't shut up. He - or they, since it seems like a panel of critics at times - perpetually try to convince me that I'm not good enough to do what I want; I don't have the training, I'm not experienced enough, too old, too young, wrong background, etc. From writing a book to fixing a car, to teaching a class, my inner critic tries to convince me to give up before I even start. And when I do start, as soon as something goes wrong - and somethIng usually goes wrong - that critical voice comes screaming from the back of my head saying, "I TOLD YOU SO!!"
I'm a grown man. I have succeeded in many accomplishments. And still, that voice calls out.
Imagine what it's like for kids.
Kids and teenagers go through these same feelings of insecurity. They see what other people have and suddenly feel that what they have isn't good enough. That inexplicably translates - immediately - into feeling that they are not good enough. And voila! - low self-esteem is birthed.
Kids compare themselves to other kids all the time. They see other kids in bigger houses or with nicer, more expensive equipment, or getting tutors and personal coaches. How is an average kid from an average home supposed to compete with a kid who is shuttled from one mentor to another, practice, coaching, games, travel teams, more practice, math tutors, music lessons, tournaments and competitions, and on and on.
And social media does not help at all!
Social media is the place where people get to brag about all the wonderful amazing things they are doing with their lives; snapshots of moments that exclude the failures along the way.
Everybody fails. So why are we so afraid of it?
Kids do not get a chance to be kids today. Is it their fault? Hell no! It's the fault of the parents who think that their kid has to keep up with every other kid, not miss out, lose a step, blow a scholarship opportunity... at 8 years old!
Insecurity is the result of a society that feeds off of achieving greatness and accomplishing goals, without acknowledging the hard work and failures that had to be overcome along the way.
Scholarships and rewards and trophies - they are results. They are not the story.
The first step, the hard work, the desire to quit, the prayers for the inner strength to press on, get back up and keep going - that's the story
Parents focus on the end-game, not the journey. As a society, we are preoccupied with status and so are our kids, as a result. It's the wrong message.
Celebrating the spirit of endurance and hard work - that's the message.
By focusing on each step in our paths we can empower our children to also find pride and confidence in their ability to sustain their effort, to not give up, and to know that they are better than those critical inner voices that want to tell the they're not good enough.
We all have that inner critical voice - some ore than others.
It's just a feeling. It's not real.
And it's not true.
Failure has a bad reputation; but failure is the best teacher.
Be proud of your failures because they are the result of trying to do better.
One of my students this year came from another school. He arrived in January. And immediately, he was trouble. When I say he 'was' trouble, I mean that he embodied trouble; he sought it out; he raced towards it like moths to flame; and he loved it, he loved it, he loved it. he loved the rep it gave him, the status it gave him, the circle of like-minded friends it gave him. If I described him to another student they knew who I was talking about without my even having to say his name, he was that good at building his rep for being trouble, being disrespectful, being that student who just didn't give a shit. And he was proud of it.
Every day he would come into the classroom late. He wouldn't slide in quietly. No, that wasn't good enough for his rep. He would strut in, loudly announcing to another kid in the class the highlights of his day, such as, "Oh, I just got my helmet today!" referring to the day he was introduced to the football team (probably as a last resort. I've never heard of a student carrying a 30% average being allowed to play on a school team) or the day some other kid stepped up to him, or the day he said he was going to throw down outside the school. All kinds of stuff, announced loudly across the room.
Every day that he walked in like that I sent him out with a do-over: "you can come back in respectfully, not disturbing the lesson, or anyone in the class."
And nearly every day, that's the game we played.
Miraculously, this kid could miss half the classes, screw around during class time, never crack a book, fall asleep (which is what he did when he had no one in the class to talk to) but when it came time to take a test on the topic, he would easily score in the 80's and sometimes higher.
I pulled him aside. I told him how smart he was. "You hear things. You are an auditorial learner."
"Huh?" he asked.
"You learn and take in information primarily through what you hear."
"Oh. Yeah," he said, and he kept looking at me. I had his attention. I understood how he learned. Here was a kid who needed to move around and do other things while in the meantime, listen to what was going on and what others were talking about.
"You're certainly not looking at the information. And you never crack a book. You barely pick up a pencil, but you get 80's or higher. Because you learn through what you hear." he was engaged. he was listening. This time, to me.
I designed lessons to provide additional access to the learning through audio. Audible and pre-recorded you tube recordings of books on tape are a great resource. The kid learned. During class discussion his hand shot up. he called out. He didn't understand the etiquette of classroom behavior and respect - didn't get the idea of taking turns - but the kid knew his stuff and didn't have the patience for someone else to come up with it.
But, peer pressure and a school rep is strong when you're 16. His behavior spiraled downward again towards the end of the year, when most kids lose interest. But this guy, he could lose interest in special ways. One day I had to talk to him privately.
"You stopped coming to class."
"And your being disruptive and not doing anything again."
"School's whack, yo. It's stupid. I ain't learning nothin' here."
"You're not learning anything," I corrected him, always the teacher.
"That's what I said!"
"So, what's the plan?"
"What plan?" he asked.
"The plan. What are you going to do? With your life? You're 16. You can work. You can drive. You don't want to come to school, so... what else are you going to do?"
"Oh, you know... I dunno... sell weed. Work. Live with my Mom's."
"You think your mother's gonna let you live on her couch doing nothing? I met her. She will throw your ass outta the house!"
"Naawwhh," he drawled.
"So, you got no education, you're gonna sell weed and do some kind of job. Where does that lead?"
He said it like it was memorized: "Jails... institutions... or dead...."
I nodded, "right. That what'chu want?"
He shrugged it off so I kept going. He was staring at the floor, the walls, anything but at me.
"Hey, tough guy. You disrespect what everybody's trying to do here, but you're not man enough to hold your head up and look me in the eye?"
He lifted his head. Now we were eye to eye. He wasn't as tall as me, but he was muscular and trim. If he wanted to get physical, he'd put up a good fight. I didn't want to think that way, but I had to. You have to when you're dealing with a kid on the edge. They feel like they've got nothing to lose, and that is a dangerous mindset for an opponent.
"What are you waiting for? You got it all planned out. Why are here? You don't need a license to sell drugs. There's no age requirement. You wanna live that life? You think you'll look good in a shit-brown jump suit that says State Prison on it, go ahead. Go for it. But what are you wasting your time for here?"
He didn't answer, but he held my eyes in his. It was a staring contest. And I took the bait.
"Look, I'm not talking to you teacher to student now. This is person to person. I know guys who went the route you're on. And I've been to their funerals. You wanna run the streets? Be a hot shot out there? When you're mother's waiting at home for you? Go for it. But know that you're running into a war zone. Kids like you die every day doing the shit you're glorifying in your head right now. You told me your own old man got shot down dealing on the corner. Just like that dude who came to speak to our school, the one on the crutches. 6 shots in the back. And your old man's crippled for life. And you think this is a fucking path to glory. Are you serious?"
Still, no words from him. Still, he held my eyes. But his nostrils were twitching - a sign he was nervous, maybe even scared.
"I've been there," I said. "I've seen kids arrested. I've been arrested. Cops don't play. It's not a game to them. Your dealing means that someone's kid - someone they know - will be a victim and they will rain hell down on you. They will blame you for every kid that ever died from drugs. And so will the judges. And so will the other inmates who decide that you're good looking enough from behind to satisfy them for the night. And the next. And the next. An the next."
His nostrils were flickering wildly now.
"I'm not trying to scare you, but I am telling you the truth. You are a smart kid! You have gifts that these other kids in there don't have. Some of those other kids try super hard to do well and don't have the natural intelligence that you do. They have to work for it. And they do. Fo you, it comes easy, if you let it." I paused. "What is so bad about success?"
This time I waited for his answer.
"Are you afraid of being smart? Afraid of standing out by doing well in school?"
He shrugged. Looked down at his feet.
"Look at me," I repeated. "You have it all. You've got what it takes. And I will believe in you until you start believing in yourself." To this he nodded.
"Now, I don't expect you to suddenly be super star student, but while you're trying to figure all this shit out, let me do my job. You... just lay low. Keep a low profile. You don't have to figure it out, but think about what you love to do, and then make that your purpose. Maybe that's football. Maybe it's money. You'll know. But don't throw your life away. 'Cause that's just a waist."
Things turned around after that. He laid low. He wasn't intent on causing trouble. He didn't come to class much either. And I could only hope that he wasn't out on the streets trying to deal drugs like his dad did, hoping for a shower of bullets to point him in the direction of motivational speaker.
All I can do is try. But I do know that briefly... briefly... I had him. For a moment, he was listening.
Hi. My name is Stephen Tesher. I am a writer and an educator. Most importantly, I am a father. I've authored three books, staged numerous plays and written screenplays, articles, and this blog. I write about kids in crisis. I write about parents trying to figure it all out. I write about learning from failure and the resulting successes.