February 12, 2006
I arrived early at Hueneme High that sunny September day. It was the first day of school in 1967. I was a young, clueless, first-year teacher. My attire, a double-breasted gray suit with a white shirt and tie was the standard for teachers.
As I opened my classroom door, all my college educational knowledge was spinning in my heard. I was determined to run my class with an iron first; no kids were going to get away with anything. I felt I was the boss and everyone would know it. As my first-period students settled in, I introduced myself and immediately started in on the classroom rules. The first topic, was being late for class. About that time, a young lady came in late. I immediately started chewing her out in front of the class and threatened detention if the pattern continued. She appeared to be visibly upset. As the week passed, I noticed some of my students were talking, not doing their work. I was having verbal confrontations each day.
On Friday morning, my tardy student, Vanessa, came in late for the third time. I screamed at her and kicked her out of class to to get a pass from the office. As I turned to continue my lecture, a young lady raised her hand: "Mr. Lane, would you like to know why Vanessa is sometimes last?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Her dad left the family without a word. Vanessa's mother had to secure a second job and leaves at 6 a.m. Vanessa has the responsibility of dressing, feeding and walking her 5-year-old sister to kindergarten, then hurrying to school before the tardy bell rings to keep you from yelling at her in front of the class Also she is worried that her mother won't be able to pay the rent and the family will be in the street. So she found a part-time job and works till 9 p.m."
Suddenly, all eyes were focused on me.
About that time, a student messenger came in with an office memo. It related that at exactly 10:15 a.m. there would be a district-mandated silent fire drill. Please report to the P.E. area. I had never heard of a silent fire drill. However, I announced to the class we were going to the football field in four minutes. I was not going to balk as a rookie teacher if the principal's name was on the memo. As we exited my room and walked down the hall, one of my students noticed heads peering out of doors. "I smell a rat, Mr. Lane."
"Smell it at the P.E. area," I quipped. As we approached the P.E. area, I noticed another rookie teacher and her class. I realized we had been hoodwinked by some veteran colleagues. As we trooped by some of the classrooms on our way back to class, many heads were popping out of the doors, laughing and pointing. Another one of my students lamented, "We look like chumps, Mr. Lane." That's the way it is when you have a rookie teacher. Later, as I entered the teachers' cafeteria for lunch, a table of coaches yelled, "Welcome to Hueneme, Rook." I just smiled and shook my head.
That same evening, I sat at home pondering what kind of teacher I wanted to be. I decided to do some research. I attended conferences, carried out visitations and did personal reading. As a result of my research, I determined that students don't care what you know; they want to know if you care. (Studies of students who drop out of school show these students felt that nobody cared.)
Over the next few weeks, I changed my routine. I indicated to my students that my classroom would be open before school. I would be listening to rock 'n' roll music. However, I was available for help with classwork or for any problems they needed assistance. All tardy, discipline or other classroom problems would be handled quietly and not loudly in front of the class.
Slowly, the classroom attitude was starting to change. Because I was showing care and respect for my students, they responded by working hard on every assignment. They were starting to see me as an adult advocate, someone they knew they could trust and come to for help. Many of these students were from broken homes. They lived with older brother or sisters, grandparents or single parents. My goal was for every student in class to be successful. Some of my teaching colleagues stated calling me, "Lane, the social worker." I would say, "Whatever works."
In summary, I firmly believe the closer teacher/student relationship you have in class, the harder your students will work for you. That slogan worked well for more than 35 years in the high school classroom.
Jim Lane, a retired teacher, lives in Oak View.