Everyone was settled in their orange plastic seats, eyes front, and I was about to start our first activity when Tiffany walked in late with a pass.

I took it, silently, placed it on my desk, and continued my instruction to the class. That was Monday.

On Tuesday, Ramona was late. Unlike Tiffany the day before, she did not have a pass. Again, I was in the middle of instruction.

I acknowledged Ramona’s arrival, silently, by writing myself a quick line on a pad of blue sticky notes I always keep in my pocket, and she slipped quickly into her seat.

A few minutes later when the class was busy in small groups I spoke to Ramona.

Without engaging other students, or allowing them to engage me, I said, “Ramona, I noticed you were late today and missed some of the directions. Since this is your third time without a pass, I’m going to issue you a detention because that is our classroom policy. Please make sure you get all the directions from someone so you don’t miss the entire assignment. If you need extra help, we’ll talk about that after school when I see you.”

I said this in a calm voice.

I showed no aggravation.

Quite honestly, I didn’t feel any aggravation.

Why? Because I had not allowed Ramona’s lateness to distract me from my instruction.

Did I start out my teaching career this way—calm, in control, unruffled?

I did not.

I started out my teaching career feeling aggravated when a student was late. And I’d express my aggravation by asking a question.

“Why are you late?”

Logical, right? But wait a minute, what was I doing asking a question at all?

Wasn’t I taking my class’s hard-earned attention off of my own instruction?

Wasn’t I putting it smack on the one student who wasn’t in her seat ready to go? What was I doing? For some of my students a late-arriving classmate offered much more interest than my instruction, particularly if I staged a little showdown around the issue of their lateness. Most particularly if the student was one just waiting for center stage. Ever had one of those?

Like Bill, one of my students early in my career. He walked into my class, very late, on a sultry May afternoon, every student in the class struggling to attend on such a spring day.

“Bill, you’re late. Where have you been?”

“Out to lunch.”

Then, of course, Bill strutted to his seat, bowing to the enthusiastic applause of his buddies lined up in the seats along the back and blowing kisses to the giggling girls in front.

Who was in charge of my class now? We all knew it wasn’t me!

Or, here’s another treasured memory: upon asking another late student where he’d been, he said, I kid you not, “I’m a little backed up and took longer in the bathroom.”

Well, that was about as low as I was willing to let things go so I began to ask myself, did I really want to continue to explore, in front of a classroom, the universe of smarty-pants answers to everyday questions like:

“Don’t you know how to behave?”

“Do you talk like that at home?”

“How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Where’s your homework?”

“What would your Mother say if she heard you talking like that?”

Over time I began to realize that asking questions in behavior situations was a BIG MISTAKE.

So now I don’t.

And I don’t have to manage all the behavior problems my innocent questions once uncorked.

Take it from me, think twice before you ask questions and I think you’ll find some of those pesky everyday behavior problems will simply stop.

And if you want to share with me your favorite questions you wished you’d never asked, and the answers you wished you’d never heard, I’m compiling a list! You know where to find me: info@CristiaLesher.com

____________________

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

What to read more articles by Polly Bath? Click here!

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

“Good morning, Luke,” I said when he arrived in my class that morning.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a good one, for sure!” Luke said. His jeans were rolled up to expose bright red socks and red Converse All-Stars. He wore a white T-shirt and red suspenders. To top it off, his face was painted half-red and half-white.

“We’re gonna crush the other classes in the pep rally this afternoon!” Luke pumped his fist. My heart sank with worry. This afternoon’s rally would be a school spirit competition among the different grade levels. Like I said, it’s a fun week, but it represented a big red flag for some of the kids I work with who need structure daily. The screaming, yelling, and stomping was barely controlled chaos for some students, and I worried about them. And it was Luke that worried me most.

I’m a Special Education Teacher, specializing in behavior, and I had a good relationship with Luke. Over the year I’d worked with him, we’d built a mutual respect for one another. Luke is a tall, lanky, brown-eyed sophomore with thick, curly blonde hair that bounces up and down when he struts through the school. It’s hard for him to hide and he doesn’t want to—when Luke is in the hall, people know it. He’s also socially awkward and physically mildly aggressive.

What others can’t see is he’s learning disabled, emotionally disturbed, quite accurately diagnosed with ADHD, and impulsive. He’s had more than his share of failures in school, which he’d turned into a badge of honor, referring to himself as a high school “Froshman.” Froshmen are students who didn’t earn enough credits to become sophomores—they’d created this affectionate identity for themselves.

When the final bell was about to ring, unleashing over 1,000 teenagers to the gym, I took Luke aside. Frankly, I wanted to keep him from attending, but I knew I couldn’t—he’d had a good day, enjoying the attention from his outfit and painted face.

Instead, I offered him refuge in my classroom. “Luke, you can stay here if you want.”

“We’re gonna crush ‘em!” he yelled.

“Okay, Luke, but if you find yourself getting overwhelmed – or that kids are getting to you – please come back to this room.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, Miss B.” And with that he flew out the door at the sound of the bell.

As the rally got underway, I could hear the noise down the hall erupt in cheers as the excitement escalated. Simon, a student with emotional issues, made a beeline for my classroom. I welcomed him and settled him into a quiet game of computer solitaire. Two other students ventured in to escape the high emotions. I set them up with some calming activities. We talked a little about ways to cope with chaotic situations.

And then – the door flew open!

It crashed against the wall so hard it made a big hole; the windows rattled and the kids cowered.

Luke had arrived like a tank trying to fit into an elevator.

“Those *$%ing losers! I’m not putting up with their sh#*!”

He flailed his arms like a drowning victim and spewed descriptors that no one likes to hear, all about everyone at the rally.

I stood up and moved fast.

“Luke!”

But he was blind to everything but his own overwhelming feelings.

“Luke! Take a breath! Calm down. You’re okay here, settle down.” Darn it, I thought. I knew this would happen.

“Luke,” I tried again, and took a big calming breath myself, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Completely oblivious to me, Luke shouted, “I’m going back in there! Those M*&^%F***#$% aren’t gonna win!”

I have to protect him, I thought. I’ve got to stop him. If he heads back in there in this frame of mind he’s going to get himself into a lot of trouble…

Luke headed for the door, and so did I. “Luke!! Luke!!” But he paid no attention to me. He wore a glazed determined look that said, “I don’t know you and I don’t care.” But I wasn’t reading the signals nor attending to the fact that this sixteen-year-old “Froshman” was as tall and strong as a man. No, what I was thinking was that all I needed to do was stand in the doorway as the authority figure and make him stop.

So I raced for the door and beat him to it.

And then my para was helping me up from the floor.

And not long after that I was in a meeting with the administration.

. . .

“It’s district policy,” the principal told me. “It’s a teacher assault. You know the rules, Polly. Luke will have to be suspended.”

I did the paperwork and went home.

Except for my dirty white sweater and very bruised ego, I was fine. Fine, that is, except for my emotions.

. . .

Back at school on Monday, I found I had colleagues who wanted Luke gone.”Look Polly, the kid doesn’t belong here,” and “This kid is out of control. You should press charges.”

With the exception of the counselor and a couple of paraprofessionals who worked with Luke and understood his problems, my colleagues seemed to view it as an opportunity to rid the school of one more behavior problem. I felt acutely how much special educators, paras, and counselors are but a small force, often isolated. Others don’t know what we know and therefore they can easily conclude kids like Luke simply don’t belong in public school. I found myself not only sad about everything that had happened with Luke, but also deeply disappointed in my coworkers.

My principal could see my turmoil on that first Monday back.

“Polly, I want you to go home,” he said. “Later, you’ll know how you want to handle it.” His vote of confidence felt very good. I’ll always remember his support. And that night my husband told me to do what I thought was right. I was feeling pretty embarrassed and stupid at that point—that these two men had faith in me made a big difference.

But I still had a lot to work out, and for days I battled with my thoughts. Were my colleagues right? Was it time to write this kid off? That felt completely wrong. I’d worked with Luke and I knew him; he hadn’t come to school that day to create a scene. Neither had he meant to assault me. I had always told my students to “own” their side of every behavior—now it was my turn to do the same. I replayed the incident over and over in my head, asking myself, “What part of this did I contribute to with my behavior?” And then it dawned on me—I’d done everything right except for one significant action: I had stood in front of the door!

All of a sudden I was laughing at myself, and it was such a huge relief.

What had I been thinking?!

Well, I’d been thinking that being an authority figure trumped Luke being tall, male, besieged with emotion, and impulsive.

Over the next few weeks at school, I began to feel better. After all, I hadn’t been physically injured; only my ego had been shattered, and it looked like I was going to recuperate from that!

Meanwhile, something was missing. Luke. I began to wonder how he was faring with his suspension. Having made my decision not to write him off, I began to look forward to his return. I had lots to teach Luke about handling his disability, and I was ready.

Then, one morning, Luke was back. He arrived in my classroom, lanky as ever, eyes as big and brown as always, curls still fluffy. But it seemed like Luke’s spirit had been washed away with the red and white paint he’d been wearing the last time I’d seen him. Instead, he stood in the doorway looking wilted, apprehensive, and frightened.

“Okay folks, it’s Monday morning,” I said. “Let’s plan our day.” I was trying to begin class as usual, but instead of taking his seat, Luke stood in the doorway.

I started the students on an activity and then walked over to him.

“Good morning, I missed you, buddy!”

Luke looked at me as if to ask, “What are you talking about?”

His look struck me like a body blow.

At that moment, I knew that I had been the fortunate one. I’d figured out where I went wrong. I’d gotten over being furious. And I’d had time to become rational.

Luke had not. He had been suspended and held accountable, but that was where it had ended for him. I could see it on his face – all his feelings of the past few weeks were still fresh, and Luke had no idea what to do with them. He simply could not process these big emotions on his own.

Polly, I said to myself, you are watching an emotional disability in action.

Unlike me, who could process strong emotions normally, who had an understanding principal and husband to listen to me, and who could learn from such an upsetting event, Luke had no more skills today than he had had twenty days ago.

I wanted to cry.

It struck me then, just as a kid with a learning disability needs help figuring out a math problem, this kid with emotional disabilities needed help figuring out an emotional problem.

And Luke had not had any help.

So, standing in the door with scared, confused Luke, this is what I did:

“Luke, welcome back. I have some things from your teachers so you won’t fall behind. I know it must have been difficult to do a lot of the class work without any help. We’ll get through it. Do you have any questions or concerns with getting back to your classes today?”

Luke just looked at me. He was still deep in the quicksand. “Look,” I said, ” Let’s get you to your seat—and remember, if you run into anything with other kids, you know to come here, right?”

“Right,” he answered.

And he walked into class.

____________________

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

In the beginning, it was a matter of Miss Hardy running into Sylvie in the hall when Sylvie should have been in class. All Miss Hardy needed to do was say, “Hello, it’s nice to see you. Get on to class now.” And just keep walking.

Instead, Miss Hardy made one of the most common mistakes I see when a colleague is managing behavior. She asked a question.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

It’s a logical question, but I would have told her I NEVER ask a question when managing behavior. Why? Because sometimes I get an answer I don’t like! Which is what happened to Miss Hardy when Sylvie was rude, mocking, and disrespectful. Miss Hardy now had two behaviors to manage—the original problem plus the inappropriate response to her question.

And now Miss Hardy also had to manage herself because, understandably, she felt attacked and insulted by Sylvie’s rude response. Since everything Miss Hardy did after that was in response to those emotions, her interaction with Sylvie escalated into a power struggle.

Fact: nobody wins when a student and a teacher get into a power struggle.

Fact: it takes two to struggle. If the adult stays composed there is no power struggle—instead there is a student making poor choices and there is a calm adult.

Fact: a power struggle is worse than useless when it comes to helping students learn how to make better behavior choices.

I will never claim that it’s easy to avoid power struggles in these situations, or that doing so ever becomes second nature. Even after years as a teacher and behavior consultant, I still have to make a conscious effort. But it can be done.

For starters, when someone is rude and abrasive, I have to understand that the first thought that comes into my head really doesn’t have anything to do with them. Nick Long and others have a term for these knee-jerk thoughts we all have: automatic thoughts.

Nick Long would say my automatic thoughts can be positive or they can be negative, but they are the result of my past, not my present. And it’s in response to the automatic thought itself, not the present situation, that I have an emotional response. It’s worth repeating that last sentence. It is in response to the automatic thought itself, not the present situation, that I have an emotional response.

When a student gets in my face, my automatic thoughts tend to be indignant or aggressive. If I act on them, my behavior is going to be indignant or aggressive.

Commence the power struggle!

So, for me, the first step in managing student behavior is to manage myself.

This is what I do.

Stop. Yes, as simple as that. I make myself stop before I say a single word. If I want to maintain control of the situation, I have to stop and give myself time to…

Think. I want to block my automatic thought, be it anger, hurt, or indignation. So I do what I call self-talk. In my head I say, “Polly, talk to me, talk to me.” This is my personal signal to myself to do two things: block my automatic thought and then change it. Perhaps Miss Hardy was thinking, “Who does this Sylvie think she is? She isn’t going to talk to me like that!”

In Miss Hardy’s shoes I would say things to myself like, “Maybe Sylvie hasn’t had many positive interactions with adults in authority and her only learned response is defense. She doesn’t have the skills I have. Maybe she needs us to teach her, or she will have run-ins with authority all her life.” I might even think, “Poor Sylvie, I wish she knew how to get her needs met; she probably has some lovely qualities.”

My self talk helps me to lower my defenses and, most importantly, to not take it personally! It’s never about me! And it wasn’t about Miss Hardy. Sylvie was acting like that because it’s the only way she knows how to handle authority.

Blocking my automatic thought and creatively changing my thinking allows me to…

Stay Calm/Maintain Control. When I change my thoughts, my emotions change. Even though a tough student like Sylvie might be smirking and looking very defiant, I myself am in a quiet place. It is in this state of mind that I make the best possible decisions about how to respond to the Sylvies in our schools.

Finally, once it’s all over, no matter what choices the student may have made, I…

Give Myself a Very Big Pat on the Back. No kidding. I commend myself for maintaining dignity and control in a tight moment. I move on with my day and let myself feel really good about handling a situation that could have easily escalated and reinforced a student’s poor behavior choices—in this case, Sylvie’s technique for gaining attention the wrong way.

I’d love to hear how you make out applying my four steps. Let me know, won’t you? You can email me at info@CristiaLesher.com.

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

I was between meetings, coming out of my office at the end of the hall just as Miss Hardy six doors down exited her American History classroom.

I knew she was headed to the faculty lounge because it was 11 a.m. Every day she grabbed a yogurt and caught up on her grading. I’d been working at Truman High for three years as a Special Education teacher, specializing in behavior, and I knew all the teachers. I made a point of it.

I also made a point of making contact with as many students as I could every day, whether I knew them or not. I’d learned that knowing everybody made things a lot easier when push came to shove. Actually, sometimes just knowing everybody helped push NOT come to shove. That’s the way it is when you specialize in behavior—you learn that relationships matter when it comes to getting the job done. The job? Helping adults help students make better choices. Simple. Not easy.

And talk about a student who needed help with her choices: here was sixteen-year-old Sylvie, strolling down the hallway long after the bell, in her oversized black sweater, tight little black skirt, lime neon tights, and short turquoise boots. Roaming the halls was a chronic thing with Sylvie, a girl who didn’t let school interrupt her social agenda.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Miss Hardy asked.

Oh boy, I thought, that’s a mistake. With a kid like Sylvie, I never ask questions. Why? Because nine times out of nine the answer is just going to make matters worse.

Sure enough.

“Where am I supposed to be?” Sylvie mocked in a little sing-song voice. “Well…,” putting a finger on her chin and looking at the ceiling, “Wherever I want to be!” And off she went, flicking her long, straight blonde hair behind her like an exclamation point. “And why don’t you just mind your own business!”

Wow.

That even took my breath away and I am a veteran of students with sass. I saw the blood rise in Miss Hardy’s face.

“What is your name!” Miss Hardy called after Sylvie, in a volume that was no longer her usual measured tone.

Oh no, I thought, don’t go there Miss Hardy. Don’t go there. This girl enjoys her confrontations with adults who try to correct her. If you let your emotional temperature rise you will be no match for her.

Meanwhile Sylvie tossed back as she kept on walking,”What’s it to you?”

Mistake number four was when Miss Hardy hustled down the hall after Sylvie, just as mad as she could be. I wanted to call out to her, “Stop! Whatever you do, stop taking the bait!”

Because that’s what she was doing, this excellent and well-intentioned teacher. She was taking the bait clearly dangled in front of her by a true master of the baited hook: our young Miss Sylvie.

Anyway, if you’ve ever tried to catch a wild rabbit, you can picture what Miss Hardy and Sylvie began to look like. Miss Hardy, in her navy wool skirt and matching blazer sped up and Sylvie, glancing back, moved faster.

I wanted to assist my colleague. I didn’t want to undermine her. Nevertheless, I could see an all out chase was about to begin. So I walked out into the middle of the hall.

Sylvie stopped.

Sylvie and I knew each other.

“Oh, Miss Hardy,” I said. “I’ve been looking all over for Sylvie.” Now there was no truth to this, but I had to corral Sylvie and help Miss Hardy maintain her dignity. “Do you mind if I interrupt? I’ll make sure Sylvie catches up with you later.”

Miss Hardy looked relieved, and Sylvie, who knew she’d been caught in the act, followed me back to my room.

Sylvie was held accountable. The next day she stayed after school for Miss Hardy. By then Sylvie was calm and owned up to her behavior. Miss Hardy was also better able to have some perspective on the situation. They had a nice talk.

When I had Sylvie in my office, I’d given her some advice. “I can help you learn how to participate productively in conflict, but until then, do not respond verbally at all in these kinds of situations, because you always get yourself into trouble. Also, you can save yourself a lot of headaches by following the rules—like not wandering the halls.”

What I wanted to say to Miss Hardy was this: “It’s hard when a kid is rude to your face. And it’s very hard not to get mad. But that just escalates it. The good news is that it’s actually possible to keep your cool in such situations. When you do that, you make good decisions about bad behavior.”

I couldn’t blame my colleague for following her instincts with this student. But Miss Hardy let her emotions get the better of her. Next month I’ll write about how I avoid losing my temper and getting into power struggles with students. No matter how rude they get. There’s a better way for Miss Hardy. One she’ll like better.

*THE HISTORY OF “DON’T TAKE THE BAIT”
The late Dr. Mike Mezzocchi, behavior expert extraordinaire, was my mentor and colleague. He had a cartoon drawing of a fish looking at a baited hook. On the top it said, “Don’t Take the Bait.” Mike passed copies of this cartoon out to the thousands of teachers who came to his wildly popular behavior workshops around New England. “Don’t be this fish,” he’d say. “Don’t take the bait.” Then, comic that he was, he’d hook his forefinger in the side of his mouth and drag himself across the room. His point was that that was how much dignity and power we had left after we’d taken the bait from a student who was trolling. It was his first rule for teachers dealing with difficult kids. It’s been six years since he passed and I miss Mike still. Always will. Are you a Mike Mezzocchi alum like me? I’d love to hear from you. You can reach me at info@CristiaLesher.com

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

I didn’t know this kid personally, but I knew he was notorious for being late to class, and his teachers did nothing about it. With his piercing eyes and a string of tattoos encircling his forearms, I had to remind myself he was just a high school student. I knew it wasn’t that his teachers didn’t care, but that they avoided confronting him. Looking at this bundle of brooding hostility, I could see why.

But when kids get a certain reaction repeatedly, especially one of fear or avoidance, they come to expect it. Sometimes they even use it. And believe me, you don’t even have to say anything – they know how you feel – because adults have been reacting this way to them for a long time. But, as a behavior consultant and a veteran teacher of some very rough kids, this is what I have learned to do: Intercept it! Change their perception! Don’t let them continue to believe that adults can neither handle them nor help them.

So I said, “Hey, you should go into your class before you’re late,” and I turned to enter my own.

And he said, “Why don’t you go into your classroom and teach like you get paid to do!”

Well, of course I had to fight myself to not react. But instead of saying anything, or even giving him a glance, I headed into my classroom. Meanwhile, I created some quick “self talk” to change my own perception. I said something like this: “This child has difficult relationships with adults he sees as authority figures. He pushes limits to see how we’ll respond. And he has successfully sucked many of us into confrontations that don’t go anywhere useful. His life is so difficult he feels he has nothing to lose. He needs my help.” I invented this little scenario from scratch because in reality I knew very little about him, but it short-circuited my urgent desire to lash out and threaten him with consequences. All of which is what he expected. All of which hadn’t brought about a single change in his behavior. I was sure of it.

The next day I saw him in the same spot, with no apparent intention to get to his class on time. He made a tiny bit of eye contact. I went out on the same limb.

“The bell is about to ring,” I said lightly. “You should go into your classroom.”
He gave me the “What’s it to you, lady?” look, but this time he didn’t say anything. Of course he also didn’t move an inch. But I went right into my classroom. To linger would have been to invite a rerun of the day before. I wasn’t looking for reruns. I was looking for a new show.

For weeks, we played out more-or-less the same scenario off and on, until one day he saw me approaching, and slowly dragged his back along the wall, and then, turning on his heel, slipped into his classroom before the late bell. I said nothing. I didn’t even acknowledge him with a glance. No, I was keeping this whole thing very low key. Any praise, or even a whisper of triumph on my part, and we’d have been back to square one.

After that, I saw him in the hall every day around school. I offered him a “Good morning,” a “Hi,” or a “Nice to see you today,” which I always say to all the kids, whether I know them or not. I keep it simple and sincere, and I make sure to avoid being patronizingly cheerful.

I didn’t get a response.

No matter. I kept it up.

Until one day he stopped me with a surprising question.

“Who are you?”

He was right! We didn’t even know each other’s name. Never mind that he was awkward, and even rude. He’d made contact.

“We’ve never actually met, have we? I’m Ms. Bath. I teach across the hall from one of your classes.” I kept my voice soft and kind as we stood there in the sea of fluorescent lights and the funky odors of the high school hall. I felt as if I were coaxing a bull to take a carrot from my hand.

He grunted and walked away.

Weeks later he appeared at my classroom door just after the last bell. He had walked in from his kingdom – the school hallway – into mine, and he said, “Uh, could I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure. I’m done for the day.” I offered him a seat in the Adirondack chair next to my desk. He sat, looking down at the yellowed floor tiles for a long time.

“Someone should really wash these floors,” I said, trying to put him at ease. “The scuff marks are just impossible to keep up with.”

I’ll never forget what he said next.

“I have some big problems in my life and I don’t have anyone to go to.” There was a long silence. I waited quietly. He’d come to say something. He’d say it when he was ready.

“My parents moved away last August,” he said finally. “They figured I was old enough to figure out how to finish high school.”

He told me how he was alone, bouncing from place to place, staying with friends. But his welcome was wearing thin.

I looked at him sitting there. He didn’t look intimidating anymore. He wasn’t scary. He was scared. He looked like a five-year-old lost in the mall, except he was sitting in a big body trying desperately to figure it all out while not exposing his fear and vulnerability.

At that moment, I knew I had made all the right moves. He’d changed his behavior because of my actions, and we’d made human contact. Because of that he could seek assistance. I’m not a licensed counselor but I was able to steer him in a better direction by calling on a colleague who was. This student – Tom – began passing his classes. And arriving on time! He started to see more value in himself and had less conflict with adults.

When children are not available to learn because of life’s circumstances, where do they go? Well, whether they are ready to learn or not, they come to us; they come here, to school, each and every day. We only have control over OUR response, not theirs, but, when we do take control of ourselves, we sometimes elicit powerful results from our students.

And, as for me? I continue to say, “Good morning, I’m glad you’re here.”

Because who knows what response I’ll get next?

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

Blam, blam, blam! Mrs. McCabe’s textbooks crashed to the floor as the closing door caught her on the shoulder and she lost grip of her belongings. Car keys and tampons flew like airborne projectiles and landed across the foyer. Lipsticks, snug in their polished cylinders, rolled out of reach. Student papers fled the shelter of their file folders and scattered everywhere.

Before I could step in to help, Principal Bailey collared Greg Gunnars who looked completely perplexed. Greg’s dirty blond, skater-style hair curled around his chin as he stared at the floor.
I’m an educational behavior consultant, not a mind reader, but this kid’s face said it all. The principal is a raving lunatic. I’m an innocent bystander, but he’s gonna take it out on me anyway.

Principal Bailey glowered. “You couldn’t wait one second and hold the door?” Mr. Bailey reprimanded Greg for not holding the door for the next person who happened to be Mrs. McCabe. But this wasn’t getting through to Greg. It was as if he’d never heard of holding a door open. Greg’s fists were clenched, but he took the abuse as if it were a physical blow he was used to. It actually hurt to watch it.

“In my office,” Mr. Bailey pointed to Greg.

My personality and my experience with children would not let me ignore the situation. I knew Greg wouldn’t learn from a punishment. My job was to find out what he did need to learn. When Greg exited the principal’s office with a detention slip, I offered to walk him to class.

“So I guess holding the door for people isn’t something you do?” I asked.

“She has arms,” Greg said. “She can’t open the door herself?”

I remembered the look on his face back in the foyer. Maybe something else was going on with this young man. Maybe he really didn’t have some basic social skills – ones we assume kids have long before high school.

“Of course she has arms,” I said. “But, look. You know how people hold the door when other people are following behind them? It’s just what you do.”

The look on Greg’s face confirmed he had no clue what I was talking about. I reminded myself that sometimes kids don’t know how to do what we expect of them. And sometimes they get into trouble because we adults think the kids aren’t doing the right thing on purpose – or that they’re being rude intentionally. The fact is they don’t even know they’re being rude because they don’t know the basics of common courtesy!

As we walked, I talked to Greg about the idea of holding a door open, or offering your seat on a crowded bus to an older person.

“Look, I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Greg said. “If someone wants a ride on a crowded bus, they need to get in line sooner or tough luck!”

I came to the conclusion that this kid wasn’t heartless. He was clueless! I convinced him to come to my classroom to talk more during first period, which was my free planning period.

Greg sat in the special Adirondack chair next to my desk, which I use for these kinds of one-on-one conversations. It quickly became clear that Greg really didn’t know about doors – closed or open.

“Let me get this straight,” Greg said. “I don’t even know these people, but I’m expected to hold the door?” 

“It’s just something people do,” I said. “It’s considerate. We all have to live on this planet together so why not help each other out. I’m not suggesting you invite them to Thanksgiving Dinner! Just hold the door.”

I finally got a laugh out of Greg.

“So how long do you wait? Are they a certain distance away? What if they’re out in the parking lot? What’s the rule?”

I laughed. “There is no rule. It’s a judgment call,” I said. “There are times I hold the door, then let it go when the person behind me stops to answer their cell phone or slows their course. It’s funny, but at least I offered.”

“This is just stupid enough that I’m willing to give it a try,” Greg said.

“Go for it,” I said. “You never know when you’ll make someone’s day with just a little gesture. Let me know how it works out for you!”

As Greg proceeded to his class, I wondered how the principal might have handled the situation differently. What if he’d said, “Oh, Mrs. McCabe, are you all right? Greg, could you give me a hand? We have to get Mrs. McCabe collected! Could you grab those books and I’ll get these papers.”  Then he could take Greg aside after that so he wouldn’t embarrass him in front of others. “Greg, has anyone ever taught you about holding a door for other people? No? Well, let me give you a few ground rules. I think you might find them helpful.” What a difference that might have made.

Never assume kids have the information we think they should…according to our expectations. Sometimes, if you stop to think, you can “open a door” for a student and help them learn a social skill that can open doors for them for the rest of their lives.

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy. A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

Billy’s arm shoots up.

He’s waving it wildly in the still classroom, waiting for permission to speak.

“I hafta use the restroom!” he blurts.

The other children turn in their small orange seats to look at him, as if anticipating something awful.

Billy is the reason I am in this classroom as an outside behavior consultant. It’s December and his behavior has been getting worse since the fall, despite everything a well-meaning teacher and a caring principal and staff have done to help him.

“Billy really struggles,” his teacher, Mrs. Z, says when he is out of earshot, “and the other kids are actually a bit fearful of him.” Mrs. Z’s concern is genuine. “He has hurt kids on the playground. I hate to keep him apart from everybody here in the room, but I’m afraid he may have an outburst.”

“When does he have his outbursts?” I ask.

“It can be any time you ask him to do something,” Mrs. Z says quietly, deeply concerned.  I can tell she cares about kids. And she cares about Billy. But she cannot figure out how to help him.

Billy returns to his seat and looks idly out the window at snow-laden clouds. Mrs. Z walks over, leans over his desk, and hands him his pencil. “We’re still all doing our alphabet papers now, Billy. I see you are on R,” Mrs. Z says cheerfully. “Let’s get started.”

Billy puts the pencil down on his desk with a little smack and very loudly says, “No.”

In what seems like a single movement all the other little heads rise from their work and turn to look at Billy.

“It’s time to do your letter R, Billy.” Mrs. Z tries to remain unfazed. “Settle down and start using your pencil.”

“No, no, NO!”

Billy has had enough.

And so has Mrs. Z.

She gives Billy a time out in the far corner.

I have now witnessed a scene that has become a familiar one for Billy and Mrs. Z.

So this is where I come in.

What can we do to change Billy’s behavior? Not just manage it—CHANGE it. This is my goal.

With a child like Billy, two things always come to mind for me: either Billy can’t do the paper or Billy doesn’t want to do the paper. Either way, Billy has chosen the only social response he knows will work: “NO!” Since kids begin modeling social skills at the age of two, I know that I am witnessing a learned behavior. We don’t have any evidence at this point that Billy can’t do the work, so I’m going to tentatively assume he can.

Right now, however, the paper is less important than addressing the “NO.” In other words, I’m going to focus on teaching Billy some cooperation skills—those good old compliance skills that allow each one of us to at least give something a try. Like doing our letter R.

Don’t get me wrong—the paper is important, and we’ll get back to it. But for right now, it’s his social skills, not his academic skills that are getting in the way of his success.

I will tell you, this is a pattern I see all the time, from kindergarten to high school. Think about that the next time one of your students is getting in trouble with you—ask yourself, is it an academic skill they are missing, or a social skill? If it’s a social skill, teach them the social skill they need to use in order to complete the academic task. Believe me, they frequently go hand-in-hand.

At outdoor recess a peppy red-haired assistant in a bright yellow anorak takes everyone outside so Mrs. Z and I can talk. We come up with a plan for the afternoon. After recess, the children chatter to Mrs. Z as they return to the classroom. “Billy pushed me,” “Billy kicked me,” “Billy…” The assistant motions Billy to the front for a scold, but I don’t want Billy under the public spotlight anymore for his behavior if I can avoid it. So I intervene.

“Is it really getting cold out there?” I ask the children. “Look at your frosty cheeks!”

I make innocuous comments deliberately to distract their focus from Billy. The children respond to me. No one appears hurt, which is obviously key, and the reporting about Billy stops. Kids learn early on who the “bad” child is, and that can be a dangerous self-fulfilling prophecy for kids who struggle. For now, I’m going to show the teacher how to start taking this particular kind of public heat off of Billy, while we work on generally turning things around for him.

The afternoon routine begins and the children start working on their art mobiles.

“Billy,” I say. “Let’s get working on your letter R paper so you can start your alphabet mobile.”

I know what response I’m going to get, and I get it. Billy says, “NO!”

Instead of even addressing his refusal, which is only going to lead to an escalation, I turn my attention from Billy to assist another child for a moment. Then I return to Billy.

“Billy, would you please pick out all the green crayons from the crayon box for fun time later?”

Billy stands up, walks over to the big candy cane-striped crayon box, and carefully picks out green crayons. All right! I think. We have a little compliance going here! And this is exactly what I am aiming for—a little experience of compliance for Billy.

A few minutes later, while happily gathering the right crayons, he knocks over a big aluminum tumbler holding paperclips.

He stops.

He looks at the class.

The other kids stop.

They look at Billy.

It’s as if all the children are holding their breath. They are waiting for the outcome.

The pattern has been there all day for us adults to see. And now we see it: Billy is the chosen scapegoat – and why not? He has poor social skills and gets much-needed attention when he misbehaves. In such a situation the adult must never contribute to the pattern, so I say nothing about the spilled paperclips.

“Wow, Billy, look at all those green crayons you found. You’ve got a good eye. Well done. Bring them over here, would you?”

Complying, Billy gathers all the green crayons up to his small chest and brings them to me.

“Thanks for getting the crayons for me, Billy,” I say. “I really needed them ready for later! If you didn’t get them, we wouldn’t be able to color at this table.” Billy’s dignity over the paperclips is preserved.

What’s a can of paperclips anyway? It is nothing. The crayons are the point. The cooperation is the point. Easing young Billy into skills that will better serve him is the point.

But, Billy still has to do his letter R paper.

“Anna, would you share your R paper with Billy?” I ask one of the children. ”Show Billy how you do it and help him out.” For now, I’m more concerned with Billy interacting and complying than I am with making him do his paper by himself. After all, he’s only five.

Anna approaches Billy and I make sure it’s a friendly transition while Mrs. Z helps other children with their mobiles. Billy follows Anna’s lead. She seems to have a natural quality of caring for others. She plays “teacher.” Using Billy’s pencil, she begins writing on his paper. 

“These papers can be boring, but we just gotta do ‘em,” Anna says. You’d think I’d given the little girl her lines! Billy laughs. She traces a letter then tells Billy to do one. They take turns, and she reminds him to put his name on the paper, which he does.

Mrs. Z. moves Billy directly into the mobile art project and takes his R paper from his desk with a look of relief.

Mrs. Z and I stay after school to brainstorm ways to give Billy the experience of saying yes. We want to wean him from his knee-jerk no. We want to do it by teaching him the skill he doesn’t have, the yes skill. Meanwhile, it’s key that Billy not be scapegoated, so we brainstorm ways to bring him in to the classroom as an equal. And we discuss how to help with social skills out there on the playground. We can’t have him hitting and kicking.

It’s only a beginning. Billy’s going to take lots of work. When I’m back in the school next month, I’ll check in to see how Billy’s doing. He’s a little boy with a lot of cards stacked against him, but with a willing and committed teacher like Mrs. Z, Billy’s got a chance to head into First Grade with some new skills under his belt.

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy.

A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

On Monday, Zach backhanded his copy of “Catcher in the Rye” off his desk. On Tuesday, Zach flipped the book at the window, which looked out on a patch of blacktop that was already steaming in the mid-morning Florida sunshine. On Wednesday? He threw “Catcher” at my head.

Zach was already intimately familiar with in- school suspension, and I knew it was never going to change his behavior, given the way it was merely a holding pen in that school. So I didn’t send him out of the classroom. If I had a job here, it was to identify the causal factors for his behavior and help him learn the academic and behavior skills he was missing. That was going to require patience. I kept reading aloud, “It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.” The room was quiet – were they listening?

I never put a copy of “Catcher” on Zach’s desk again and I kept an eye out for flying objects. A couple of students began to understand the novel and actually opened the book. A few more joined in a discussion after I finished reading for the day. In this class of these particular ten students, I was overjoyed to have even a couple kids participate—this was a group of kids that long ago had shut down at school. I was having my first glimmer of hope. It was going to get better. I knew it would.

Little by little, over the weeks, students warmed to me and warmed to the subject, and we began to make slow but steady progress. I knew how to teach this population, and I knew I could build on these beginnings, which were for some students the first school success they had experienced. But Zack remained remote and unengaged. Nevertheless, I kept treating him with courtesy, and making sure he knew he was welcome, whether he wanted to be there or not.

One Friday, just after the winter break, I was dog tired at the end of the day and looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday. I was collecting books and papers to head home, and rooting around in my purse for some aspirin. “Mrs. Bath?” Zach stood over my desk, his 5′11″ frame slouched there, his hands deep in his pockets. “Could I ask you something?” This was the first time he had addressed me by name.

I nodded.

“I’m having trouble understanding some papers,” Zach said. He gave me one of his crooked smiles—a smile I’d seen aimed at a couple of his buddies, but never at me. “Could I bring them in and you help me read them?” At 16, Zach was on his third round of 9th grade English.

“School papers?” I asked.

“No,” he mumbled. “Not like that.” He looked at the floor as if it held some interest for him. “It’s more like, um, for my job and stuff. And like the DMV.”

“Okay,” I said. “I can help with those.”

“And some other stuff I need to read for home.” He avoided my eyes. “It’s just temporary,” he said. “Until I can figure it out.”

“Sure,” I said. “Just temporary. I can tutor you after school on Monday.”

Zack had decided I might be on his side.

I suddenly wasn’t so tired anymore.

Over the next few weeks, I met with Zach as often as his work schedule allowed. At first, he mostly brought work-related forms. He’d lied to his boss about having read them and, worse, that he understood them. He worked in an automotive garage so, if he couldn’t read the manuals, it might be a matter of safety – his own or someone else’s. There was no time for phonics. This was a matter of learning high frequency words that he’d use in his job.

One day it would be, “Mrs. B., what about this?” Zach would grimace and hold out a bank statement as if it were poison. Another day, he’d give a half smile and open the driver’s manual. “Can we try the practice tests? If I can get my driver’s license, I can drive my…” Zach broke off mid-sentence as he often did when it got too personal.

Then something happened in Zach’s life. I didn’t know what, but I could see it in his face and the way he held his shoulders, tense and up towards his ears. Suddenly Zach was asking to meet mornings instead of afternoons. He said he had to get home right after school. I agreed. But Zach wasn’t there the next morning and he wasn’t in school either. He missed the following morning too and I felt like flinging something at the window myself. My mornings are precious. The morning after that I brought papers to grade, convinced he wouldn’t show and not sure at all what was next, nor why I was still showing up.

“Here, Mrs. B.” Zach handed me a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry I missed our appointments. I hope you like milk and sugar.”

I took the coffee. “You know, Zach, it just so happens that I love milk and sugar.” His simple apology and small kindness melted my impatience. This kid might not be able to read well, but he was learning to read me like a book. I hoped I could turn that into literacy.

Zach handed me a slip of paper and slid into his usual front row chair. I scanned the paper and sat in the desk beside his to read it again, slowly.

Zoledronic acid…. bisphosphonates. Bone strength. What was I reading?

“Zach, who is this for?” I asked.

The Metastron will be administered intravenously, every four hours. For breakthrough pain…

Zach’s head was bowed over his desk, his eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know if I’m helping her,” he said. His voice was just a whisper.

“Who?” I asked quietly and reached across the space between us to touch his arm.

“My mother. She has cancer.”

Zach and I worked together for the rest of that year. And I never again questioned why I was helping the boy who had thrown a book at my head to learn how to read.

Come back next month on the 15th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy.
A veteran educator, she is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Read more information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynotes. And contact us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

Dahlia was a kid, if there ever was one, who needed her teachers and parents all working from the same page. But Dahlia’s single-parent Mom, frazzled, messy hair, disheveled clothes, rarely showed up for scheduled school meetings about her daughter.

I didn’t need to be told that this Mom wasn’t comfortable inside a school.

So, desperate to help Dahlia not go down the tubes, I decided to strike up a relationship with her Mom in the high school parking lot of all places! Why not?—She was there every morning, in an old steel blue Chevy dropping off Dahlia. Dahlia’d pop out of the back seat the second Mom braked in front of the school, and Dahlia’s little sister was always in the seat next to Mom—a little, quiet, elementary kid, with dark circles under her eyes.

Coming from a blue collar background myself I have some feeling for parents who are intimidated by the insides of schools, not to mention by teachers. So I didn’t feel judgmental of this Mom for not showing up to meetings, and I’m sure that helped—this had to be a woman who felt judged all the time. I started by making little overtures to Mom—things like waving when I saw her and saying hello when I was close enough to the car. Over time she warmed to me, and we started to talk.

One day, she flat out broke down and cried. The full blow of her reality hit me like a punch to the heart when she pointed to her little elementary daughter and said, “My God, she will grow up just like her sister.”

This was the opening I’d been looking for. Mom was reaching out for help. Help I could give her.

And I did.

For starters, I taught her how to set limits on her daughter. Dahlia was staying out all night with people her mother didn’t want her with even by the light of day! But Mom never said no because she was afraid of Dahlia.

“It’s OK to say no,” I told her. “And look, we’ll deal with Dahlia’s school work, but first, let’s work on keeping her safe. That’s the priority for now.” Mom looked at me with huge eyes, drinking it in. She was hungry for this.

“Give her a curfew,” I said. “And whatever you do, stick to it. If you don’t, you’re just changing the rules on her. Also, if she violates her curfew, which she will, then she has to stay in the next weekend. And make sure you hold to that, no matter what kind of misery she puts you through, and trust me,  she will.”

I taught Mom how to respond to Dahlia without argument. “When she argues with you, don’t defend yourself. Restate the direction, let her know the expectation, and follow through.”

We discussed how to relate to her daughter. “Listen to her when she talks,” I said.

Months went by. Days of riding to school in full argument were replaced with conversation and listening to the radio. Communication opened up. Dahlia began to feel safe—the adult in her life, the one she needed the most, was now being the adult. I’m sure you’ve noticed, kids in chaos often increase their acting out behavior—they are looking to see where the limits are. Well, Dahlia’s world was settling down now, with limits that stayed put, and so Dahlia was settling down too.

When Mom wanted us to be fast friends I had to keep professional boundaries. So I always made time for a conversation with Mom at school, never out of school. Also, I made sure to respect her role as Mom. I restated it often—she was the Mom and I was the educator, so my role was around school success. And it was around school success—every bit of my work with Mom in the parking lot was around stabilizing Dahlia’s world outside of school so that she could have a better chance of succeeding inside of school.

Come back next month on the 15^th. I’ll have another story for you about my lifetime work as an educator and a behavior consultant.

Polly Bath

Polly Bath’s articles are about real people and real situations. Changes are made sufficient to protect everyone’s privacy.

Polly Bath, veteran educator, is a full-time behavior consultant, trainer, and keynote speaker in New England. Go to http://www.cristialesher.com/2009/01/polly-bath/ for information on Polly Bath’s in-school workshops, consultations, summer institutes, and keynote. Call or email us to make arrangements for her to come to your school.

This is how it happened.

I was starting at a new school, teaching middle school language arts with kids from 12–16 years old in each class. In that inner city school system, middle school kids line up outside the classroom door at the beginning of every period and file into class when the bell rings. I’d seen it done a million times in my old school. It was a nice way to get kids to enter the classroom in a calm and organized way. I liked it.

So there I am, first day of school back from vacation, kids lining up outside classrooms up and down the hall. It’s noisy, but, hey, it’s the first day of school and I’m thinking, well, this will calm down. I walk across the hall and introduce myself to a couple of my new colleagues—my neighbor to the left is a new teacher ready to change the world. My neighbor to the right is back from retirement due to finances, but I can tell she is glad to be here. The teacher dress code is casual: we’re looking pretty natty in pants, t-shirts, and sneakers. It’s a new year. I’m feeling pretty good.

The bell rings and I feel that familiar excitement. I turn around, ready to walk to my classroom door and lead my kids in.

And what do I see?

I see three of my kids in the air, leaping up like rockets to push in ceiling tiles, their shirts hanging out, pants halfway down their backsides, oversized sweatshirts billowing like parachutes. Another two of my kids are racing each other up and down the hallway, hooting and pushing each other. And half a dozen are laid flat out on the floor, fanning themselves and remarking, very colorfully I might add, about the fact that it’s already 90 degrees and it’s only 8 in the morning. A couple of smiling faces are looking right at me as if to say, “What’s your problem? We always behave like this!”

Well, this was a little embarrassing! What a way to start my first day in a new school.

My big mistake? I assumed my students knew how to, and would, line up single file, facing the door, composed, focused, calm. Because my kids last year did it, I assumed my kids this year would do it.

Would that I could report that that was my last mistake. But no, I proceeded right into loud lecture mode, firing reprimands, questions, redirections:

“What are you doing?”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Stand up!”
“Face front!”
“QUIET!”
“Is this going to take all day?”

And with each word I strained to be heard by these kids who treated me like I was interrupting them! If only I had not assumed, I would have been ready for this unruly bunch.

The next day I did what I should have done on the first day: I gave step-by-step directions on how to stand, how close to be to one another, where to look, and what an “indoor voice” is. I said, “We will practice this each morning before we go into our class until we’ve got it nailed.” I was calm, respectful, focused, relaxed, and clear. Better late than never.

It was a fresh reminder of the behavior mayhem that is there just waiting to happen in any school unless we think through our expectations and make sure we teach our students how to meet them. Some lessons, like the ones I taught my students in the hallway before class, have nothing to do with the curriculum, but everything to do with how the rest of the year will progress. When we don’t teach these skills, we experience the havoc I experienced—our students end up in trouble and we end up with a headache! (Not to mention a red face when it happens in front of our colleagues.) But when we do teach our kids the academic and social skills they need to succeed in our classrooms, we vastly reduce behaviors.

In my new workshop, “Top Ten Behavior Tips from the Trenches,” I spend a lot of time examining my first behavior tip, Never Assume. I give a lot of examples. It’s amazing how much calmer our classrooms can be when we teach our kids the skills that they need and that we expect them to use, instead of assuming they know them and will use them. You can take my word on it–I speak from the trenches!

Polly Bath, veteran teacher, is also a veteran behavior consultant to schools throughout New England, and in Florida as well. Her newest workshop, entitled “Top Ten Behavior Tips from the Trenches,” spells out her best advice for effective classroom behavior management. And it does so with Polly’s trademark practicality and humor. Participants in her workshops frequently call them the best they’ve ever attended on any topic, anywhere.

Feel free to contact us for more information about booking this excellent speaker and consultant.