New Haven Independent

September 14, 2005

Cell phones are not allowed in school. When I hear the sound of a cell phone, I automatically snap into action. I search around for it, I try to confiscate it, whatever.

So today, in the middle of my last-period class, when I heard a ringing, I thought it was one of my students’ phones. I stood there calmly asking for someone to do the honorable thing and hand it over to me.

Two boys kept looking sheepishly at each other, and so I assumed the phone was on one of their persons. But then one boy looked at me and said it was his ankle bracelet that was going off. I didn’t understand what he was talking about. To prove to me he meant what he said, he stuck his leg out and pulled up his jeans to reveal a black band that looked like a digital watch. He tapped it, and it made the same ringing noise I had just heard.

I think I didn’t react. I’m not even exactly sure who put this bracelet on him, other than people who want to know where this boy is all the time. He’s committed a crime worthy enough for people not to trust him to be on his own, and he’s in my class for 70 minutes three times a week.

Then the other boy’s leg made the same noise. “You have one, too?” I asked him, and this boy replied in the affirmative.

The rest of the class was silent. We were all trying to read each other. The two boys weren’t sure how I was going to respond to the fact that they had ankle bracelets, whose noise was interrupting my lesson. The other students weren’t sure how anyone would react. There were 30 seconds of intense judgment going on.

The noise went off again, this time back to Boy #1, whom I’ll call Jackson. Then, almost immediately, the other boy Eric’s bracelet went off again. There were dueling ankle bracelets.

I didn’t know what to do. So I laughed.

I’m not sure if it shocked the class that I was laughing. I don’t know if it shocked Jackson and Eric. But I do know that the tension that existed in the room for those 30 seconds of judgment melted
away. Every time an ankle went off, I giggled, and the rest of class giggled, too. “She’s laughing!” I heard one girl whisper to another. They would look up at me for my reaction whenever the ringing floated across the room. I would laugh. What else could I do?

It was a pleasant sound, too…nothing terribly disturbing, nothing I couldn’t ignore. And eventually, I even made the comment, “I want one, too!

Kids roared at that one, and then we carried on with business. I didn’t want to stigmatize them. I didn’t want to pass judgment. I didn’t want to isolate them or make them out to seem “bad,” like that one girl said on the first day of school. I just wanted them to be normal kids today and to write and to learn and to talk. Had I done anything other than laugh, I would have lost them completely.

The kids wrote amazing vignettes today. Beautiful, heartfelt and real stories about their lives. I asked them, “If you could tell any story about your life, which story would you tell?” And then I gave them a
chance to tell it, in writing. So for 15 minutes, my kids were silent, writing about the things that mattered to them. Things they wanted to share with each other, or just with me.

During that silent time, I watched Eric and Jackson write intensely. For the first time since the start of school, Jackson wrote an entire page in his notebook. He normally checks out—puts his head down,
passes notes, talks with other people. Today he was intent and focused on his story. He didn’t disturb a single student in the room, even when he finished early.

When I gave students a chance to share their work aloud with the class, Eric said, “Can I freestyle for a minute?” I replied “Of course. My only stipulation is no foul language.” “Don’t worry, Miss. I’m not gonna cuss.”

And he came out with this:
“Roses are red,
“Violets are blue.
“I really hate school.”

The class laughed, and I chided him. “As a teacher,” I said, “I don’t really agree with that poem. But thanks for sharing it.”

“Nah, nah, Miss. Let me go again.

Eric was quiet for another second. Then he said this one:

“Roses are red,
“Violets are blue.
“Ms. Coggio is my favorite teacher.”

Maybe that was a big moment for him. His face got really serious for a second. I could tell he wasn’t playing. I knew he meant it, but I didn’t want to tell him thank you in a serious way, the way he deserved, in front of the whole class. So I only said, “And you’ll be wearing that on a t-shirt by the end of the year. All of you will be. Mark my words.”

* * * *

Yesterday morning was the first time I spoke with anyone at Starbucks other than the person who takes my order for coffee. I was wearing green shoes, and a woman standing next to me waiting for her coffee told me she liked them. I smiled and thanked her. Then she said, “They’re so funny!”

Stop. My shoes were “funny”?

I smiled.

And as if I didn’t understand her the first time, she tells me, “They’re really funny!”

I imagined myself as one of my students, giving one of their snide replies. I’ve learned a lot about how to talk back to people, really quickly, really on-point, from my students’ replies to me and to each other. They’re witty people.

So while I was imagining being one of my students, I smiled, thinking of the possible remarks I could have made. But because I’m not one of my students, I simply said, “Thank you. They make them in red, too.”

And that was it.

And for the record, none of my kids thought my shoes were funny. They approved: “Yo, Miss. Those shoes is what’s up.”

I know.