Good Times With a Hall Walker

I have three or four teaching stories saved up, and I hope to share them all over Thanksgiving break (thank you, Jesus!), in chronological order. Here's the first....

Remember Julia*, the student who was overwhelmed by a grade-level reading comprehension test? She continues to drive me batty on a daily basis in class, yet our relationship has been growing over the last few weeks. She came in for tutoring again about three weeks back; I'd arranged it with her mother in order to make up for the independent reading and response that she'd refused to do during class.

I'd expected a surly attitude, but she was surprisingly cheerful as we waited for the campus to clear after the final bell and then strolled to the cafeteria for snacks. I think she was happy to get the undivided attention that she clearly craves. We chatted easily about the day, and about the nearly empty box of donuts that she'd spotted on top of a cabinet in my room. Those had been a reward for the classes that behaved for the substitute when I had jury duty. Julia's class, the last period of the day, had definitely not earned them.

"There are a few donuts left," I said. "Would you like one?"

She nodded vigorously, and then she asked if there were any chocolate ones.

"No, I'm sorry. Only plain glazed."

She pursed her lips for a moment and then grinned. "That's okay. I'll still eat one."

"Great! I'll eat one with you."


After we'd finished our barely stale donuts and licked our fingers, we sat side by side in two desks. When I handed her a second-grade level story, she heaved a sigh.

"I'm tired, miss."

"So am I, dear. But let's get started. Take a look at the front cover and the title."

"Abe's Hat," she said tentatively.

"What do you think of that title? What are you wondering?"

She studied the drawing of Abraham Lincoln in his trademark stovepipe hat. "I don't know, miss."

"Isn't that a strange title? I'm wondering why someone would write a story about a hat."

She shrugged.

After examining the blurb on the back cover and correctly determining that the genre was non-fiction, she started to read. On the first page, she stumbled over both Abraham and Lincoln.

"Do you know who that man was?" I asked.

"No."

I asked her what she remembered about the Civil War. She told me that she might have heard something about the slaves being freed. With effort, I restrained a sigh. Like many of my students, Julia struggles not only with poor decoding skills, but also with a crippling lack of background knowledge that severely limits her comprehension.

But I was relieved to find that her comprehension of this text was solid despite a fair number of unfamiliar words. When she read that Abe liked to hide things inside his hat, I asked what she was wondering now.

"I wonder what he puts in his hat," she replied without hesitation.

"I wonder that too. That's what good readers do, Julia. They wonder. And then they keep reading so they can find the answers to their questions."

She beamed.

It turns out that Abe kept important documents and notes to himself inside his hat because his desk was too messy, and he kept misplacing things and forgetting appointments with his law clients.

"I'm making a text-to-self connection," I said, pointing at the precarious piles of papers on my own desk. "I'm always losing things, too. Maybe I need to get a tall hat."

"Yeah," she agreed.

When she'd finished, I asked for her opinion of the story. "I liked it," she said, sounding both surprised and pleased. I suspected this was the first time in years that she'd been given a text on her own level.

Next, I pulled out some phonics materials and asked her to help me sort out the phonemes that a colleague had printed on cardstock. Each rectangle represented the single sound made by a consonant, vowel, or blend--such as sh or ch.

I pulled out the first list of three- and four-letter words and asked her to spell "fill."

Julia groaned and clutched her head with both hands. "Please, miss," she whined. "I'm so tired."

"How about this?" I said. "We'll do the first list, and then we'll take a break and go for a walk around the school."

"Okayy," she relented.

She made it through the list quickly and then bounded out of her desk and into the hall, where she spends a good portion of her day. A habitual hall walker, she slips out of class at will and wanders all over the school until a security officer, teacher, or administrator herds her back to the classroom.

On this quiet afternoon, she surveyed the deserted halls in awe. "It's so quiet, miss," she breathed.

"Yes, it is," I agreed. "Isn't it peaceful?"

"No, it's creepy."

"Maybe a little," I conceded, thinking of how quickly I sometimes scurry out when I'm up at work past dark.

She kept up a stream of chatter while we did laps around both square floors. When we reached the new wing that juts out from one corner, she raced on ahead, beckoning eagerly. "Have you been to this bathroom?" she asked.

"Is there a bathroom back there?"

"Yes! Come and see."

The stalls in this large bathroom seemed less shabby than the others. "Wow! It's nice," I said, my voice echoing. "Do you need to use the restroom before we head back?"

"Nope."

I found this surprising. Considering the way she pleads to use the restroom in class each day, I'd had the impression that her bladder was the size of a thimble.

She ran water while I peed. Perhaps she too was embarrassed at the evidence that teachers have the same bodily functions as regular people.

On our way back to the classroom, I asked if she'd like the last donut.

"Don't you want it?" she asked sweetly.

I leaned toward her, answering in a stage whisper. "I only eat two donuts on a day when I want to be really bad. In fact, I rarely eat donuts at all."

"Oh," she said.

After a few more strides, she inclined her own head toward me and whispered, "Maybe you could cut the donut in half. And then we could both have it."

I grinned at her. "I guess I could eat one-and-a-half donuts in a day," I agreed.

After we'd finished off the last donut, she plopped back into her desk without any fuss.

She struggled a bit with spelling the first word, this. "This," I repeated, pointing at the th square. "This has been a fun time."

She slid i and s into place.

"Now sound it out," I said. "Thuh - i - ss."

"Thuh - i - ss," she repeated.

"Now switch one square and spell sis," I instructed. "Sis is a nickname for sister."

Her finger hesitated over the middle of the word and then veered left, sliding th to the side. She smiled when she located the s.

When than came around, she struggled again. "Do you have the 'thuh' sound in Spanish?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't think so."

"Maybe that's why you're having trouble with that sound.... Now spell that. I never knew that walking the halls could be so fun."

She giggled as she swapped the n for a t.

When she spelled can, I said, "I hope that we can do this again."

"Me too, miss," she said shyly. Then she peered at her phone. "Time to go!"

We swept the letters into a Ziploc bag and then headed back downstairs. I practically had to run to keep up with her, but she waited for me on the landing, where she peered out the window at the few students left on campus.

Outside, we waited in companionable silence until her mom pulled into the drive.

"Have a good afternoon, Julia," I called after her.

She paused mid-stride and threw me a smile over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow, miss," she said.

"I'm looking forward to it," I said softly. And that was the truth.

*Name changed to protect privacy.