To Volunteer
Today was my first day volunteering at Albemarle Road Elementary School.
Before I get into my experience, I’ll explain the why and how of it. My son, Ty, is a fourth-grader at ARES. We moved over the summer and this is his first year at this school. His last school was much different from this one. It was considerably smaller, and catered to a different demographic. Here, we are facing some challenges that we’ve never faced before.
With over 1,500 students, ARES is the most densely populated school in all of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg school system. To quote a judge I spoke to on the subject, ARES is “a rough school.” Not only are there many, many students, but there is also a relatively large segment of the student population that either speaks English as a second language, or doesn’t speak English at all. Then there’s the shockingly large segment of students whose parents are perpetually unemployed or, in some of the worst (although not entirely uncommon) cases, homeless. I’m aware of these demographics because of my involvement with the school’s Parent Teacher Association (PTA) and Student Leadership Team (SLT). These boards are always brainstorming ways to empower ARES’s disadvantaged students and their families—to level the field, so to speak.
So my interest in volunteering with ARES lies in my desire to bridge the gap between students and their academic success, which is congruent with my Grasping for Grades film and research. For this reason, the Grasping for Grades blog will be comprised of my weekly reflections on the experience. It won’t be too long before these ARES fourth-graders are in middle school and, as many of them already have in-place IEPS, facing the intimidating prospect of advocating for themselves during the IEP development process. By working with them at this critical juncture of their lives (on the precipice of transition to middle school), I have a unique opportunity to gain insights into the type of support they will need in their self-advocacy communication.
And today was no disappointment in that regard. It began simply enough: I arrived at 11:30 a.m., which was right before lunchtime and just in time to “practice walking in a line.” I wondered how difficult walking in a line could be. Apparently it’s very difficult. After waiting in the classroom for fifteen minutes while the students did everything possible to avoid lining up in a straight and quiet row, we were ready to attempt the walking part. This entailed pacing from one end of the hallway to the other—back and forth, back and forth—until each and every student exhibited mastery (or, at least some potential of mastery) over the arts of silence, respecting others’ personal space, and maintaining a three-tile-length distance from the wall. After twenty minutes of this practice, during which three students were sentenced to “silent lunch” for their refusal to adhere to line-walking procedure, we headed to the cafeteria.
Ms. Bright (in this blog, all names and identifying information are changed) sat at one end of our class’s table and I sat at the other end, next to my son and in between those who’d successfully walked in line and those who didn’t (i.e. those on silent lunch). The silent lunchers were not as silent as they were supposed to be. Ms. Bright had to prompt them every couple of minutes, from her end of the table. As I was there to assist her, it seemed logical that I step in and oversee the silence. When the boy next to me slipped back into conversation with the other supposedly-silent boy across from him, I reminded him that he should not be talking. He said, “Who’s talking? I’m not talking. You’re the one talking.”
I turned to face him directly and, with a straight face, said, “Excuse me?” He met my eyes for the first time that day, held them until he could see that I was not budging, and apologized. After accepting his apology, I explained that it wasn’t sorrow I was looking for but, rather, silence. He was quiet for the rest of the lunch period (which was all of five minutes), and made it a point to catch my eye every few minutes for the rest of my volunteer time, half smile on his face. I made it a point to smile back.
For the rough hour of classroom time we had after lunch, I helped the students work on their science fair projects. This allowed for some interaction with the kids, which I had been looking forward to since I signed up to volunteer, and also enabled some insights into the student culture at Ty’s new school. One thing that stood out to me the most was how competitive the students were with each other, and not in a constructive way. Ty was teased by more than one student about having his mom with him in the classroom. This was done as inconspicuously as possible, of course, but like most parents, I have eyes (and ears) in the back of my head.
One boy—we’ll call him Charlie—said to Ty, “You look just like your mom.”
Ty said, “That’s good, because I’m a momma’s boy.”
Charlie, posturing as though he’d been dunked in a tub of rotten eggs, said, “Not me. I’m like my dad.” The implication was clear, and so was the intent.
From across the room, a girl teased a classmate whose science fair project looked exceptionally well put-together: “Your momma did yours for you.” It was clear to me the boy had done the work himself. It was also clear to me that, in this environment, exceptional students bear the brunt of peer criticism. All of this seems to be reflective of what I know to be true through my time with the PTA and SLT boards: Parental involvement at ARES is low, and many students struggle just to get by. I’m not sure of how much of a difference I can make in two hours a week, but I’m sure going to try.
