Some people go to jobs every day where they come home frustrated about the dwindling spirit of humanity. I, on the other hand, get to go to a job every day where I come home with stories. Some of them are like static in my brain-space: stories of people being unreasonable. Some of them are like razor blades: stories of people being abused or hurt or in pain without any recourse or exit strategy. And then, there are other days where I come home with a story that is more beautiful than any garden, more refreshing than any barefoot day. And here is one of them:
My speech class consists of nine students. At least five, as far as I can tell so far, are Advanced Placement students, preparing to place out of college courses with their knowledge and well-developed abilities. One seems to be more interested in his outside interest of rapping than school, and one is so quiet I'm not clear on who she might be yet. And then there is Mario and Isabella (not their real names). These two special students come from what we call The Pod. The Pod is our group of physically and intellectually disabled students who are bussed from around the county to attend our program. For the most part, these students have their own classes where they each reach to meet their own goals. Mario, for example, hopes to be able to use public transportation alone before he graduates this year. Isabella means to learn how to prepare herself a simple meal. Both are enrolled in a program we have that teaches them how to do simple tasks in an office setting.
Isabella is quiet, though her aide assures me that she is "a different person" in my class, as evidenced by the fact that she hasn't yelled at anyone yet. Mario, on the other hand, is happy and chatty and eager to show anyone who glances his way his "new" football schedule, a tiny, well-worn, shiny-paper, tri-fold brochure showing the Redskins game times. When I talk, Isabella looks at me shyly, bordering on smiling and Mario responds as though he and I are the only people in the room. Here's a sample:
Me: This year, we will be doing ten planned speeches.
Rest of class: (looking at me, waiting for more words)
Mario: Oh, cool!
Me: We will also be doing some unplanned speeches.
Rest of class: (same as above)
Mario: Okay!
Well, to get a very quiet, shy class of future public-speakers to get comfortable with public speaking it is very important to get them to get to know each other. So, I include ice-breaker games at the start of each class. This Friday I had two planned. The first was called Two Truths and a Lie. I gave each student a notecard and said, "Okay, each person is going to write down on this card two facts about themselves that are true and one that is actually a lie. After everyone has a chance to write down their statements, you'll each get a chance to read your list out loud and we will try to guess which one is the lie."
I've played this in groups many times before, but it wasn't until I stood there looking at Mario and Isabella that I realized what a monumental mental organizing task this actually is. First, you have to actually think of two true, but not overly obvious statements. Then, you have to craft a lie that is plausible. Then, you have to decide what order to write them in so you can hide the lie. Finally, you have to imagine how you are going to say it so no one can guess your lie.
So, everyone had a chance to fill out their cards and I said, "I'll go first." I did. It went fine. Mario guessed his guess instantly, Isabella had to be called on, and the rest of the class debated based on what they could gather from previous times being in my class.
Then I said, "Okay. I'm not going to call on someone to go. You'll just each need to hop up and go whenever you're ready." My goal is to get kids to see everything we do as un-school-like as possible.
Of COURSE, Mario jumped right up. He picked up his bent card and held it in his hand, a hand that pulls inward at the wrist and rests up by his chest. He looked down at his huge handwriting through eyes that are almost legally blind and read his first two.
"Number 1: I have hemoplagia.
Number 2: I like pop-corn."
He paused then, slightly confused but ever trusting in his teacher, and looked at me. He said, "Is this where I tell the lie and make you guess?"
The class reacted by laughing but very quickly swallowed it when they realized he genuinely didn't think that other people besides me could hear his question. As one, their eyes shot over to me to see how I would roll with this clear faux-pas. I said, "Yes. This is when you do that part."
He said, "Number 3: I DON'T have hemoplagia!"
He then put his card down and looked at us expectantly, so eager to see whether he had tricked us. All it took was for one student to open his heart and I got to see an entire class be the best of us for one moment. One boy said, "Mario, that's tough. I don't know. I think it's number 1 because I've never heard of hemoplagia." And then the students were off, debating whether popcorn was really something people would lie about, or whether hemoplagia was a real thing. They kept looking at him with faces that telegraphed, "You stumped me, man," and Mario just stood there smiling, patiently waiting to hear our final guess.
Eventually, I said, "Wait! He said he DOES have hemoplagia, but he also says he DOES NOT have hemoplagia. Those can't BOTH be true. I think it's one of those." And one kid, the rapper, said, "Well, then I think we should go with number 1, that he DOES have hemoplagia because none of us know what that is."
I looked over at Mario and said, "We vote number 1." His chest puffed up, he broke into a smile, and he announced: "You're wrong! I DO have hemoplagia! I tricked you!"
For that moment, through the generosity of teenagers, he was the very smartest person in the room.
Damn. What a great job!
My speech class consists of nine students. At least five, as far as I can tell so far, are Advanced Placement students, preparing to place out of college courses with their knowledge and well-developed abilities. One seems to be more interested in his outside interest of rapping than school, and one is so quiet I'm not clear on who she might be yet. And then there is Mario and Isabella (not their real names). These two special students come from what we call The Pod. The Pod is our group of physically and intellectually disabled students who are bussed from around the county to attend our program. For the most part, these students have their own classes where they each reach to meet their own goals. Mario, for example, hopes to be able to use public transportation alone before he graduates this year. Isabella means to learn how to prepare herself a simple meal. Both are enrolled in a program we have that teaches them how to do simple tasks in an office setting.
Isabella is quiet, though her aide assures me that she is "a different person" in my class, as evidenced by the fact that she hasn't yelled at anyone yet. Mario, on the other hand, is happy and chatty and eager to show anyone who glances his way his "new" football schedule, a tiny, well-worn, shiny-paper, tri-fold brochure showing the Redskins game times. When I talk, Isabella looks at me shyly, bordering on smiling and Mario responds as though he and I are the only people in the room. Here's a sample:
Me: This year, we will be doing ten planned speeches.
Rest of class: (looking at me, waiting for more words)
Mario: Oh, cool!
Me: We will also be doing some unplanned speeches.
Rest of class: (same as above)
Mario: Okay!
Well, to get a very quiet, shy class of future public-speakers to get comfortable with public speaking it is very important to get them to get to know each other. So, I include ice-breaker games at the start of each class. This Friday I had two planned. The first was called Two Truths and a Lie. I gave each student a notecard and said, "Okay, each person is going to write down on this card two facts about themselves that are true and one that is actually a lie. After everyone has a chance to write down their statements, you'll each get a chance to read your list out loud and we will try to guess which one is the lie."
I've played this in groups many times before, but it wasn't until I stood there looking at Mario and Isabella that I realized what a monumental mental organizing task this actually is. First, you have to actually think of two true, but not overly obvious statements. Then, you have to craft a lie that is plausible. Then, you have to decide what order to write them in so you can hide the lie. Finally, you have to imagine how you are going to say it so no one can guess your lie.
So, everyone had a chance to fill out their cards and I said, "I'll go first." I did. It went fine. Mario guessed his guess instantly, Isabella had to be called on, and the rest of the class debated based on what they could gather from previous times being in my class.
Then I said, "Okay. I'm not going to call on someone to go. You'll just each need to hop up and go whenever you're ready." My goal is to get kids to see everything we do as un-school-like as possible.
Of COURSE, Mario jumped right up. He picked up his bent card and held it in his hand, a hand that pulls inward at the wrist and rests up by his chest. He looked down at his huge handwriting through eyes that are almost legally blind and read his first two.
"Number 1: I have hemoplagia.
Number 2: I like pop-corn."
He paused then, slightly confused but ever trusting in his teacher, and looked at me. He said, "Is this where I tell the lie and make you guess?"
The class reacted by laughing but very quickly swallowed it when they realized he genuinely didn't think that other people besides me could hear his question. As one, their eyes shot over to me to see how I would roll with this clear faux-pas. I said, "Yes. This is when you do that part."
He said, "Number 3: I DON'T have hemoplagia!"
He then put his card down and looked at us expectantly, so eager to see whether he had tricked us. All it took was for one student to open his heart and I got to see an entire class be the best of us for one moment. One boy said, "Mario, that's tough. I don't know. I think it's number 1 because I've never heard of hemoplagia." And then the students were off, debating whether popcorn was really something people would lie about, or whether hemoplagia was a real thing. They kept looking at him with faces that telegraphed, "You stumped me, man," and Mario just stood there smiling, patiently waiting to hear our final guess.
Eventually, I said, "Wait! He said he DOES have hemoplagia, but he also says he DOES NOT have hemoplagia. Those can't BOTH be true. I think it's one of those." And one kid, the rapper, said, "Well, then I think we should go with number 1, that he DOES have hemoplagia because none of us know what that is."
I looked over at Mario and said, "We vote number 1." His chest puffed up, he broke into a smile, and he announced: "You're wrong! I DO have hemoplagia! I tricked you!"
For that moment, through the generosity of teenagers, he was the very smartest person in the room.
Damn. What a great job!
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