CHAPTER 1

The Differences that Make a Difference

"We suppress our children andthen when they lack a naturalinterest in learning, they areoffered special coaching fortheir scholastic difficulties."

—Alice Miller

You need a certain amount of nerve to be a parent, an almost physical nerve. You need toknow when to hold on tightly, and when to hold yourself back and let go. You need toknow when to give encouragement, when to give information, and when to give room formistakes to be made. You need to know your child can fall and survive. Above all, youneed to know how to transfer your child's trust from your strength and center of balance tohis or her own.

Many years ago, I heard a poignant story from Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, a powerful womanwho has worked extensively with the terminally ill. She told of two parents whose youngestson was dying of cancer. What he wanted more than anything else before he died was toride his two-wheeled bicycle alone around the block without training wheels. Shedescribed how the parents stood at the top of the driveway, holding their breath, armswrapped tightly around their chests. As their frail and vulnerable child kept falling down,climbing up on the bike, pedaling a few feet, and falling down again, they knew they had tohold themselves back.

While listening to Elizabeth tell the story, I dug my nails into my sides. Every cell in mybody was standing at the top of that driveway with those two parents I had never met.David, my own son, is strong and healthy. I write this book as he celebrates his twentyfifthbirthday. A few months ago, I stood at the top of our driveway watching him drive offon a journey across the country to make his own home. He left a vapor trail of memoriesbehind: I thought of the times I wasn't sure if either of us would make it, the times I had tohold myself back and let him fall, the times I had to stand up for him as his only advocate,the one who knew his strengths and limitations and was willing to fight for him. The times Iwasn't. Or couldn't.

For the most part, we all stumble through the challenges we have to face with our childrenunsupported and unprepared. There are so few guidelines to follow, because the worldchanges as fast as our children do, and the old ways just don't work anymore.Skateboards are very different from two-wheelers, and roller blades stranger still. How dowe support, guide, and encourage our children so they will be able to handle themselvesin the stiffest of winds? How do we shift their trust and belief in us to themselves, so theyhave an indwelling center of power and self-esteem that they can count on over thesteepest of hills?

These questions nag at you from the moment your children are born. Their pressureincreases as your children begin to attend school. Will they be challenged? Can they learnthe skills they will need in their lives? Will they be as good, as bright, as talented as otherchildren? Will the teacher be kind to them? Will they be safe? Should you intervene? Howmuch? Should you push them, coerce them, mold and cajole them into doing what isrequired of them? Will your children have to sacrifice their uniqueness in order to learn?Will they be labeled, disabled, unable to make it on their own? Will the school recognizehow your children are smart? Should you tell them?

What makes the task even more frustrating is that each child seems to need a differentkind of parenting for the very same task. In learning to ride a bike, my nephew Jimmywanted to be shown every detail—where to put his feet, how to push the pedals, how toturn the handlebars. Then he wanted to be left in the quiet to carefully make his way downthe road. His older brother Tommy, however, insisted that his father just let him figure itout. He didn't watch, wouldn't listen to any instructions. Rather he was immediately off onhis own bloody adventure, willing to fall until he got it right, expecting applause andencouragement when he returned.

Instinctively we notice these differences in how children learn, but as we send them off toschool, we fail to realize that these very differences make a difference in whether ourchildren succeed or not.

* * *

One day when I was working as a learning specialist, I sat in the principal's office sippingcoffee from a styrofoam cup. A freshman had been having difficulty in English and socialstudies. He'd been referred to the school psychologist for testing, which took three hours.Four weeks later, the results had been evaluated, and all of us who were responsible forhis education that year—classroom teachers, guidance counselor, assistant principal, andme—were being enlightened.

The psychologist's metal-rimmed glasses kept slipping down his thin nose as hesummarized his findings by describing the percentile ratings, medians, means, and normsof the boy's disabilities. His eyes never left the charts and papers as he gave a detailedprofile of the student's deficits, and by the end of an hour, we all knew everything thisyoung man could not do as well as the average or normal ninth grader. I could not keepfrom yawning, in spite of the caffeine and maple-glazed doughnuts.

Finally, I piped up. "Excuse me, Mr. Baron, but could you please tell us what this boy'sstrengths are, what he can do well?"

You didn't have to be a psychologist to know Mr. Baron was not pleased with my question.He cleared his throat, adjusted his gold cuff links, and explained that this student hadmany problems, as well as a home situation that was less than ideal.

"Yes," I replied, "But if you don't mind my saying so, if we knew some of his strengths, hisassets, we might be able to figure out how to use them to overcome those challenges."

Mr. Baron scowled over the tops of his glasses and said curtly that we would discuss thematter at our next staff meeting in a month. The discussion never occurred.

As a result of that incident and many others like it, at the end of that school year, I feltironed flat, gray as cardboard. I left public education.

When I returned five years later, it was only because I needed a temporary job. But what Idiscovered helped me begin to understand that mental capability is like a water tablebeneath the surface of the earth. No one owns it and anyone can be taught to tap into it.

I didn't want to go back to teaching. I was hunched over believing what the doctors hadtold me—that I was terminally ill. I really just wanted a job that would pay the rent andkeep David in Devil Dogs and Fruit Loops. I went to the local middle school and asked fora job as a substitute teacher. The assistant principal had a carefully trimmed mustache,and was as stiff as cellophane. His name was a compass direction, something like Mr.West. He told me he would phone if there was an opening. Just as I turned to leave, hecleared his throat and called me back. He was looking at my resume, and mumblingsomething about my experience with "problem" students. I explained I was only availablefor temporary work. Mr. West began to talk about an experimental class of seventh,eighth, and ninth grade students.

"To be honest," he said, "what we did was take all the kids that the teachers refused tohave in their classes and lump them together. The man who was their teacher had abreakdown. I've tried six different substitutes in the four weeks since he left. I was hopingfor a large male type, but you do have this experience in Harlem and migrant labor camps.You don't look very strong, though. Do you know karate by any chance?"

I didn't know karate, but I did know what was going on. The school was 95 percent uppermiddle class children whose parents were professors at the nearby Ivy League college.The kids in this particular class were from local farms and the railroad town that was homefor the gardeners, gas station attendants, and employees of the local Winn Dixie.

I surprised myself by agreeing to the job immediately. I figured that it would keep my mindoff the pain that had taken over my body. Besides, what did I have to lose? My career hadthree months until termination, or so medical science had said. More important things thana bunch of testosterone-tortured teenagers were intimidating me.

There were at least eight boom-boxes playing different music simultaneously at full blastas I walked in the classroom. A few girls were either dancing or having some kind ofseizure on top of the desks. Some couples were necking, making out, going at it under thedesks. Everyone else was seething in the comers. All together they reminded me of somekind of great beast plagued by fleas.

There were no windows in the classroom. I shut off the fluorescent lights. I never couldstand them. I had just read an article by a man in Florida who said they made kidshyperactive. These kids did not need to be made any more hyperactive.

When the lights went out, everything got dark. I did the only thing I could think of to do. Isat down on the floor. For a while the wild beast pretended not to notice I was there. Ittook four full minutes for them to acknowledge my presence. Someone shouted, "Hey,lady, what are you doing on the floor?" I just breathed. I couldn't think of a single reply.More minutes went by. Two girls went around the room turning off the boom-boxes. Noone turned the lights back on. I don't know why. The great beast turned towards me andopened its jaws. "We asked you why you're sitting on the floor, lady. You better answer us,bitch, we've put away six teachers already."

The words fell out of my mouth. "I need the money."

That's all I said. My voice echoed off the wall. Then, most of the beast slid down to thefloor and sat around me, curious.

I did what I always do when I am scared, I started talking, fast. "I used to love to teach. Iloved turning kids on to their own minds. But I'd be lying if I told you that's why I'm here." Ihad their attention. Teachers never admitted to lying.

"I'm terrified right now. I'll probably fail just as bad, maybe worse, as those other substituteteachers. But I need the money."

It was the truth. They knew it. They didn't have any smart comebacks. They just shut upand listened.

"You kids got stuck in here because they thought you were failures. Well, this is where Ibelong then, because I'm more of a failure than you'll ever be. I'm going to be dead inthree months. That's the truth. I'm here to make some money so my kid and I can eat untilthen."

I paused and took some deep breaths. Some of the kids seemed to breathe with me. "Youprobably won't know any more when I leave than you do right now and I'll be to blame. I'msorry you lucked out and got me as a teacher. But we're in the same place, 'cause you'rejust putting in time until you can leave and I'm putting in time until I have to leave."

No one said a thing for many minutes. There were some shuffling feet, some throatscleared. They had no idea how to deal with me. Teachers were not supposed to tell thetruth. Teachers were not supposed to admit they could fail. Teachers were not supposedto take the blame or apologize to the kids or to sit on the floor in the dark and say they'regoing to die.

I took a yellow plastic mini-flashlight out of my leather pocketbook. (Everything in thosedays was micro or mini.) I pulled out a book and began to read to myself, ignoring thebeast as it rumbled around me. One student, Denise, who had blond hair ironed straight,and black stockinged legs stretching from a denim mini-micro skirt, asked me what I wasreading. I told her it was The Diary of Anne Frank and was about a teenage girl who wastrapped in an attic during World War II. I explained how she had to live in the dark eachnight so the Nazis wouldn't find her family. I began to read aloud.

Sixty-five minutes later, I looked up and noticed the beast had rolled over, belly-up, readyto be scratched. Everyone in the room had a slack jaw and half-closed eyes. We had allbeen in that dark attic with Anne. Together. In the weeks that followed, I was told by thepsychologist that these kids' maximum attention span was ten minutes. Obviously, theirmaximum attention span was ten minutes when they were bored. Everyone was alwaystalking about these kids' inabilities, but what they were really talking about was their owninability to interest these kids.

So rather than concentrating on what they couldn't do, I began to spend a lot of time sittingon the edge of a metal desk just being plain old curious, forgetting what I had been toldabout what was wrong with these kids. They may have been lost in a world of paper, butthere were worlds in which their various intelligences could be found. The standardized IQtests told me how unsmart they were, but when I was willing to get dumb enough tonotice, it became obvious how these discarded, disabled, dyslexic kids were smart.

I began to make my mind work the way theirs did. I spent my evenings with my eyes shutand my body wiggling the way Joe's did. I'd hear people talking to me and immediatelyforget what they had said the way Samantha did. Instead of bringing cumulative foldershome in my briefcase each night, I carried a different child in my heart.

Since these kids did not come equipped with an instructional manual, and since it wasobvious there was no one right way to teach them, I began to experiment. Joe wasthirteen and classified as dyslexic, which simply meant he couldn't read. After spending anevening "Joethinking," I realized that he was very aware of his body, and had a highlydeveloped sense of touch. A few days later, he was in an accident with a blasting capwhich left him blind. The loss of his sight actually facilitated his learning to read. I asked ablind high school student to teach both Joe and me to read Braille. His fingers learned in away mine never could. In a few months, he was reading prolifically for the first time in hislife. He was even giving remedial Braille lessons to his "dyslexic" learning specialist!

I asked why so many of these kids were being given Ritalin. The school psychologistpatiently explained that Ritalin had a paradoxical effect on hyperactive children. While itspeeded up adults in a similar fashion to caffeine, it slowed down children that werespeedy and supposedly allowed them to focus and attend for longer periods of time. I saidthat I had read some research that indicated it might have harmful side effects ondeveloping bodies and in some cases was being used inappropriately for kids who reallyjust needed to learn by doing and moving. I suggested that in addition to or instead ofmedication, we could find other ways to help children attend to task and communicate.

I was repeatedly told these students were resistant, but when I worked with them onthings that interested them, when I taught them to identify how their minds work and whatthey needed, when I coached them in evaluating their own progress, there was noresistance to be found. Their test scores climbed upward. Slowly at first, and then steadilyand more rapidly.

The school board members began to complain that my methodology was unconventional,and therefore faulty in some way. Different was, of course, wrong. The assistant principalcame into the classroom to observe. One group of kids was dressed up as "The Mamasand The Papas," a famous rock group, and were singing their spelling words onto a taperecorder. Another bunch was setting up a printing press, which was going to be used topublish the class's newspaper (in an original, secret language). A young man in the cornerwas pounding on a punching bag which was held by two other kids. Two girls were curledunder my desk reading to a third. A boy wearing a cardboard sign around his neck thatsaid 'Leave me alone, I'm having a Goof Day' was elbow deep in sculpting clay. When thebell rang at three o'clock, no one rushed for the door; no one even moved, as a matter offact. That's not quite true. Mr. West rushed out to the school buses, scratching his head inconfusion.

None of us in that classroom failed. I did not die. Shirley learned how to read, Peanutshow to spell, Danny how to multiply. I did not have to add anything to their minds to "getthem" to learn. Mostly, I was involved in subtracting some of the obstacles that had beenplaced between those kids and their own internal resources. Perhaps I was their unteacher.

Ultimately though, I did fail. The light that was in their eyes when they entered school wasnever rekindled. Their cumulative folders and their minds had been so filled withdescriptions of their deficits, disabilities, and dilemmas that they ultimately became self-fulfillingprophecies. Danny dropped out of school two years later, joined the Marines, andwas killed in Vietnam. Peanuts ended up in prison at seventeen, and Shirley got pregnantat fifteen and probably still works at the cash register of the local Winn Dixie.