At Gunn: a Fable The bell has rung for lunchtime. Out the windows, it’s sunny. Chattering, zipping up their bags, slinging them over their shoulders, the students throng their way toward the open door—one junior boy among them. But let’s suspend the action, right here. Let’s run a little thought experiment. Let’s imagine a change in these lives at Gunn—a change that changes everything about this moment. Let’s say that the junior boy isn’t crowded out from going over to his teacher—not blocked out by the other four kids who would otherwise be nervously asking the teacher for an extension, or for a clarification on how the project will be evaluated, or to be emailed the assignments while away visiting some colleges—because this class, rather than having 35 students enrolled in it has only 27, many fewer to jostle with for the teacher’s time, because the school has fashioned smaller classes. Or let’s say that our junior isn’t a hurry to get outside and check his Instagrams or texts, just to make sure his friends still have his back all day, or to see if his mom or dad is still bugging him about a slipping grade—because the rules now say that students can’t use their cellphones during the day. Or let’s say this teenager isn’t in a rush, just now, to get to the quad and huddle with his buddies to obtain a couple of answers to an after-lunch test—because cheating has gone out of style on campus, ever since the school got serious about ending it. Let’s say, too, that he’s not in a dash to get to the library to finish up some homework—because his homework load last night was moderate, thanks to the school’s new minute-monitoring website, ClockTalk. Let’s also say that he’s not on his way to the Math Dept., before he grabs a lunchtime sandwich, for extra some help with AP calculus—because it’s an added AP that he decided not to even enroll in, thanks to a registration conference where his counselor laid out for him and his folks, in no uncertain terms, the costs in sleep and well-being and social life that come with multiple APs. And let’s say that our junior’s not feeling under any especial pressure, not today, because he has some breathing room before his grades will be reported home again (he knows he’ll easily rebound from the Spanish quiz last week). Let’s say, then—let’s just say—instead of running out the door, he’s pauses, fiddles with his bag, glances at his teacher and says, “Umm, you, like, comin’ to our baseball game Friday?” Or maybe what he says is: “I heard Dickens was paid by the word, and it’s obviously so true!” Or maybe he says, “So, you mean the solution stays in, whaddyacallit, suspension?” Or he blurts out, “My sister had you and said you weren’t that cool but my sister was wrong!” And moreover, as long as we’re still paused in this moment, let’s just say that the teacher hasn’t left yet either—because he doesn’t have to dash to a conference with a kid who recently plagiarized, or run to get caught up on urgent emails from parents upset over last week’s grades, or go finish grading the homework of 125 kids (since his class load is only 100), or head off to tutor a panicky junior girl staggering under the weight of three APs. So, equally likely, the teacher calls out the name of this boy, who stops and turns, and the teacher says quietly, “Heya, you a little down today? Maybe just tired? Don’t mean to bug ya ‘cause I know it’s your lunch….” And let’s just say, then, instead of what would have passed between them before—precisely nothing—the boy makes another comment to the teacher or the teacher to the boy, and then more comments follow—and they end up having a pretty “connected” conversation. Which makes them feel good—the boy especially, because what a student wants most from a teacher is to be seen as a person. And which they’ll remember tomorrow, and which builds the warmth of engagement that is basic to teaching and learning, and which sometimes becomes a lifeline. And let’s just say that a handful of such moments—squelched until recently, until “Save the 2,008” caught the imagination of the school—become filled in a similar way, by this student, this teacher, and by many of Gunn’s other students and teachers. And let’s just say that’s multiplied by five days a week, eighteen weeks a semester, two semesters a year. Let’s just say. — Marc Vincenti
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 07:13:57 +0000
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