A Story

I took the Colorado Writing Project this summer. It got me in touch with my own stories that were in me to tell and that's where I wrote this. This is a story that stayed with me even though it happened over 20 years ago. It was my first year in regular education--having transferred out of special ed. It was a year I never forgot.


Classroom Terror


Sherry Schulz
July 21, 2011
CWP II

I sit at the back table in my classroom during reading. The kids in my guided reading group are involved in partner reading a passage. We are looking at making meaning from what we have just read. I look at my six students who are in front of me at our reading table. They whisper read with their partner, coaching each other as I have taught. My eye wanders across the room and over to Jamie. She’s supposed to be copying her spelling words but I see that she has her hands in her desk. My focus pulls back and I can see the hundreds of tiny pink bits of paper under and all around her desk. I will her to look at me so I can give her that “teacher look” but she carries on with her scissor escapades. I can no longer stand it.

I speed wheel over to her desk.

“Jamie, what are you supposed to be doing?” I ask sarcastically.

She just looks at me sheepishly. Her fiery red hair and puddles of freckles on her nose and cheeks seem to glow on her pale white skin. She just sits there looking guilty.

Just ignore and then redirect I tell myself before I begin to lose it. That’s what I was taught. That’s what works for most students but not for Jamie.

“I didn’t do that, it wasn’t me!” she exclaims as she puts her scissors back into her desk.

“How many times to I have to tell you to stop fooling around and get your work done?” I ask with my voice rising in volume.

Her face starts to turn a light shade of pink, then it turns a brilliant shade of red. She jumps up from her seat, pushes past me and flies out the door of the classroom.

Panicked, I follow her.

She’s in the darkened computer lab. She sits balled up next to a bookshelf with tears flowing freely. She’s crying hysterically with gulping sobs as sloppy tears drench her freckled cheeks.

My heart is beating fast, my face flushed in anger. I can think of no words of comfort or understanding. I can only remember her misdeeds for which there are many.

“Jamie, you need to come back into the classroom—now!”

She cries on and sobs, “I hate this school, and I want to leave!”

I bite my tough to keep it from saying my inner most thought (go ahead, please!) I head back to the classroom trying to calm myself and put my focus back on the students who are doing things right.

Why can’t I find the good in her, I think. Every child has a part of them that makes them loveable—where’s Jamie’s? I head home that day drained from our dramatic encounter.

The next day Jamie comes in happy as ever—as if nothing had happened. It doesn’t bother her—but it bothers me. I am the teacher. I am not supposed to let a student push my buttons the way that she does.

We carry on through our days, some bad and some worse. A month passes. I wonder how I will get through the year.

Today is Friday and the kids are excited. It’s a fun day that we do for every Friday in October. The kids earn a scary story reading session by me if they can earn the letters for “Fright Day” throughout the week. By Some miracle, the class has earned it this afternoon.

I exclaim, “Okay, now it’s time for fright day!”

Cheers rise up from the class as the students scurry around the room, closing the blinds, shutting the door and finding my flashlight. We gather in a big huddle on the floor in the middle of the room. I pull my wheelchair up to the group and Evan goes and fetches the pillow that I will sit on. They watch me as I pull my feet out of my footplates, scoot to the end of my seat and gently set myself down on the pillow below.

I hear “Wow, you’re short! “

“Your legs look kind of funny!”

“I know, I am short but you can’t tell when I’m sitting in my chair, can you? My legs are paralyzed, so they are kinda skinny looking,” I reply.

It’s the second time the kids have seen me out of my wheelchair. I like to see their reactions. They are so real and so honest—and many times just blurt out a question or a comment. Since Jamie was new, she had never seen me do this before.

I get out my Scary Stories to Read in the Dark series and begin to read. I make them all jump when I yell, “YOU HAVE IT!” with the Big Toe story. They huddle together loving every scary minute of it.

Amanda looks frightened.

She asks, “Can I go in the hall because this is too scary for me.”

“Sure you can, “ I say. “Just bring a book with you to read by our door.”

After a half an hour our fright day is up. They moan and beg for more but it is near the end of the day so there is no more time to give. We break our huddle as the kids switch back on the lights, open the door to let back in the kids in the hall, and raise the blinds.

I move my chair behind me as I grab the seat pole to begin to lift myself back in.

“Okay, who’s going to lift me?” I jokingly say.

They just laugh at the thought of trying to carry me and put me back in my wheelchair. Jamie comes up to me and puts her hands beneath my legs in an effort to help me into my chair.

I am touched. A warmness overtakes me. I have never seen her do anything that resembled kindness or helpfulness. This was a first.

“Thanks, Jamie,” I say. “But I can really do it myself.” She smiles
and stays near in case I do need her.

We get our room cleaned up for the end of the day. The chairs are stacked, folders passed out and the kids are lined up ready for the bell. The bell rings and the students eagerly file out of the room. Jamie swings by me on her way out and gives me a strong hug. I hug her back. We have found our connection.

I think maybe I will be able to get through the year after all.

Twenty plus years later I am at a Starbucks in a Barnes and Noble. A young woman with red hair waits on me as I order my skinny vanilla. She looks at me with an unbelieving look.

“Are you Ms. Ramsey?” she asks.

It was Jamie all grown up. We talk of our lives since our year together in fourth grade. Her freckles have faded—but I still see her essence of her younger self. As I am ready to leave she replies,

“You were my favorite teacher,”

I smile as I head out and think I am grateful we found the goodness in each other.