Restoring far more than justice

The lastest craze in problem solving at school is called a restorative justice circle. Students sit in a circle and air out their feelings. There's no cross talk, and only the person with the talking stick (in our case, a ruler) may speak. There are no put downs, no negative comments, just open communication - in theory :)

The girls in my class have been asking for to have an RJ circle for the past few days. Apparently the boys have been driving them crazy. So today we sacrificed our math period (much to everyone's relief), pushed all furniture to the edge of the room and formed our makeshift circle in the middle.

When they first sat down, all girls sat on one side of the circle, boys on the other. At the risk of starting World War III, I requested a seating change; a boy-girl pattern. I've never had so many simultaneous dirty looks, but they complied.

The girls spoke of feeling inferior. They didn't think they mattered. The boys were making them feel worthless. They tell them to stop acting like "such girls" when they are upset or angry. Call them sluts, lesbians, hoes. They eavesdrop on conversations, instigate fights among groups of girls and stand back to watch the drama unfold.

The boys felt attacked. Surely, not all of them are that way. Yes, they've said things in passing. Called names just to tease. Laughed as the girls were mean to one another, calling them drama queens, spazzes, saying they need to be on pills to help with their anger. But never did they mean to hurt.

What was most poigniant was when the boys began apologizing. They told everyone how much they really cared about them. They didn't hesitate to say that this class was, in a way, their family. And that they should be treating their family better. One spoke up and told us that as a Christian, he believed we were all brothers and sisters. Everyone, regardless of belief, agreed. They all shared how they loved everyone and ought to regard everyone as equals. They stood up as young men today. They opened their hearts, spoke their minds, with honesty being of the outmost importance.

In no way did I guide this discussion. I did not force conversation or ask questions. In fact, I sat in silence for the duration and just listened. Not one person said anything that they thought I, as a teacher, wanted to hear, or what anyone else wanted to hear for that matter. Each spoke from the heart. When a girl cried, a boy stood up to get her kleenex. I'm sorries were exchanged. There were hugs, smiles.

I closed telling them that they were all strong people with beautiful hearts. That they needed to carry the discussion beyond our class doors, to the playground, to their homes, into every relationship. That one day, they would need to have open, heart-felt discussions with their parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, children. I told them to remember the day in the sixth grade when they allowed themselves to be vulnerable, to be honest, treating one another with love and respect.

I'm so proud of my 27. They give me hope.

Long weekends

Never in my wildest dreams would I think that I would loathe weekends. That I would count the hours until Monday arrived, bringing a week of demands that I am starting to look forward to.

I’m an elementary school teacher, and so I do not work the regular 9-5 day as much of the world.  My work day does not end when the final bell goes. Nor does it end when I go home. There is always more to do.  Don’t take this the wrong way and think I’m just another complaining educator, claiming to be overworked and underpaid. I love my job.  Since I was an innocent second grader I dreamed of having my own class, and today I am there.

I have a class of 27 sixth graders. Twenty-seven eleven year olds who warm my heart with hope for future generations and make me want to bang my head against the wall all at the same time.  There are days when I speak to them as equals, days they are wise beyond their short lifetimes, and days when I still see them for who they truly are – children.  And despite their complicated nature, their struggle to maintain innocence in a world that shoves them into adulthood at an ever quickening pace, they have somehow managed to be an anchoring force in my life.

I know that when the  bell rings at 8:40 tomorrow morning, I will be greeted with “Good morning” which will be quickly followed up with “Do we have gym today”???.  I’ll tell them to take off their sweaters to appease our uniform policies, and wait for them to line up quietly. I refuse to take them down the hall for their favourite class until they are silent. I’ll collect the late slips and tell the girls to hurry out of the change rooms, they’ll have time to finish gossiping at recess. They’ll ask for extra silent reading time, which always encourages me to think I may have had a hand in cultivating readers, an activity which was my own first love.  We’ll end the day with math, a time of day that no one is luke warm about. Math is either loved or disdained by these kids.

I long for Monday because these twenty-seven are there. There are some that make me question my decision to become a teacher. There are others that reaffirm my choice. But all of them are loyal. I can say with confidence that if asked, not one would choose to be in another class over mine. They groan at the prospect of a supply teacher, and tell me they missed me when I return from a day at a workshop.  They trust me enough to ask me to sit with them to help mediate problems between friends they can not solve on their own. They smile when I say I am proud of them because they know it’s true.  Those twenty seven lives make me feel needed and worthwhile. Perhaps that makes me selfish and arrogant .  But it’s what I find encouragement in these days.

So Sunday night better get here soon. I don’t know how much more of the weekend I can take.