As teachers, we often focus (rightly) on what it is we’re teaching. I might specialize in mathematics for traumatized youth, while your gift is in conveying your enthusiasm and respect for science or literature. But from time to time, I am reminded that there are many spaces where education can happen, some of them entirely separated from what we actually teach.
I have a student, Delia, with extremely well-developed avoidance tendencies. Each day holds a new crisis, a new scheduling conflict, another reason not to come to class or, when she does come to class, not to remain there for the full session. I often feel (naturally, I think) very frustrated by this. I used to respond by emphasizing timeliness and respect for class schedules and by trying to foster in her a desire for improving her attendance.
Over time, however, I began to feel worn down. I was here to help her get her GED certificate, after all, to teach her the content that would be assessed on the exam. Still, I did my best to meet her where she was in order to keep her engaged. When she would ask what time class started, instead of repeating the obvious—“on the hour”—I began to say instead, “Whenever you can come. Class is always open for you.” Sometimes she would come and stay for a bit, but more often, she would not.
I did not consider this whole series of interactions a success at the time; on the contrary, I felt that I had not been able to spend any real time teaching Delia anything at all. Her tests showed no marked improvement, and she was no closer to reaching her goal of obtaining a GED certificate. She was, however, more often in the building and seemed more cheerful when we spoke.
I wasn’t thinking of it at the time, but what I was practicing was something along the lines of risk management or harm reduction. These concepts shift our attention as educators from hitting benchmarks and meeting standards, focusing us instead on the work we can do to gently bend the arc of our students’ lives—toward less dangerous behavior, decreased street involvement and a greater openness to behavior change and educational growth. In Delia’s case, that meant maintaining a relationship grounded in building healthy attachment and meeting her where she was.
One afternoon, on learning that I would be changing positions and would no longer be teaching the classes she (only occasionally) attended, Delia became visibly upset. “Who’s going to teach me?” she said, “You’re such a good teacher!” That’s when it occurred to me that I had been wrong to think I never taught her anything, despite the fact I had never had the chance to convey content or impart knowledge through regular, formal lesson delivery.
To some extent, all educators know that the way we relate to our students communicates as powerfully as our words. But those of us—and our numbers are growing—who work with students from damaged homes, wounded communities and abusive relationships see especially keenly how we educate through attachment repair. The environments we create, the tone we take and the presence we hold can unlock lessons within our students that are more effective than the best we could ever create at our desks.
I can’t say today that I know exactly what Delia believes I have taught her; it’s probably true that none of us ever really knows what we teach to one another. But if what she gained from me was only the fact that I showed up even when she was struggling to show up herself, it was a thing of great value to her. And like much of what teachers truly teach, it occurred in the space between lessons, in that relational gray area where we must not forget that learning also happens.
Swoveland works with high-risk students in Massachusetts, primarily preparing them for the GED certificate exam. He also leads enrichment and engagement programs in writing, photography and art.
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