Different Strokes

I can see the end in sight. No, I'm not dying, it's the school year that's ending. Now is the time of year when I think back over what I've taught and how I've taught. Try as I might to stay in the present, my mind is already planning what I will do next year, and how I will do it better. It's part of what makes me return year after year. Well, that and the big fat paycheck.

While I spend a great deal of time looking ahead, there are certainly moments of reflection. Last week, the music teacher took my students for an extra rehearsal in preparation for their upcoming bells concert. I stood in the back of the auditorium and watched as they performed, and I was amazed at what I saw. There were a few students that I expected to do well; I know that they have had private musical training. But there were a couple of students who don't usually shine academically, but in this arena they were doing an outstanding job . I could see their lips move, carefully counting each measure in order to ring their bell at the exact right moment. They had been taught to hold their bell just so and they took pride in doing so. One little girl was aware that the boy beside her struggled to keep up. She watched his part and hers, giving him a slight nod when he should come in. And that's what I love. Over the years, I have really learned that each child has something to give. I love that they are different.

The following poems speak to some of those differences.

What’s in a Name?

I’ve taught lots of Nicks
It’s a popular name
Oddly enough
No two were the same

I remember one Nick
He had a mischievous smile
He liked to blurt out
It was definitely his style

If I said, “Be quiet,” that was
His cue to talk
If I said, “Please be seated,”
He would get up and walk.

Another young Nick
Was always polite
He thought it important
To do what was right

If I said, “Be quiet,”
He’d sit perfectly still
And hold his breath
Forever, or until

I asked him a question
From his social studies book
He always knew the answer
And didn’t have to look

I’ve taught Carlys and Rachels
And Michaels, and Bens
Courtneys and Camerons
I’ve even taught twins

But one thing I’ve learned
In my teaching career
Is that each child is special
And really quite dear.


Molly Melinda
Sweet little Molly Melinda
Had apple red cheeks and blond curls
She wore hideous clothes
Much different than those
Who chose to wear lockets and pearls

The problem with Molly Melinda
(Though it mightn't be a problem at all)
Was her creative mind
It was one of a kind
And the tales she could tell, they were tall

Molly found joy and excitement
In things for which others cared less
A bug in her hand
Was something quite grand
And at times she might tend to obsess

For hours, she would stare at an insect
Observing its movement and style
When others grew weary
With eyes red and bleary
Molly would still wear a smile

Some teachers found Molly Melinda
A bit of a problem to teach
Her questions were many
Mistakes few, if any
At best, she was difficult to reach

One day, even Molly Melinda
Realized she just didn't fit
So she vowed to be good
Doing just what she should . . .
And wasted away bit by bit

Until one day, sweet Molly Melinda
Decided to embrace who she was
An ingenius child
With thoughts running wild
And today, that is just what she does

* * * *

By the way, it's been years since I wrote this
And Molly? Well, Molly has grown
She's traveled afar
Just discovered a star
And happily lives on her own.