3 most damaging words we tell our sons

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For four years, I have taught in a hospital where too many of the children I teach hate themselves, cut themselves and want to kill themselves.

Too many of my students are angry and depressed.

Too many of my students feel isolated and alone.

Education Triage

I've started my fourth year teaching at the hospital (14th year of teaching) and after a month of summer I feel refreshed and ready to take on the challenges that come with teaching in the hospital.

Teaching in a children's psychiatric assessment unit has forever changed my perspective on what matters most.

For the last three years, I have worked with children who are in some kind of crisis. None of these children come to the hospital to get caught up on their homework. If homework was their priority, they could stay at home, complete their homework and go to school -- but because these children are experiencing such difficulties, their regularly scheduled homework and curriculum can not meet their needs.

When people ask me about my job, I tell them that I do educational triage. My job is to figure out what a child's immediate needs are and help them to start meeting those needs. Children might stay for 72 hours or as long as 5 weeks. Often their stay is somewhere in between. 

When a child enters my classroom in the hospital, I explain that no one comes to the hospital to get caught up on their homework, and I ask them to write down some of the reasons why they are in the hospital. Essentially, I ask them to write a list of things that are causing them problems in their life that they would like to make better. I explain that some children write down things like anger, depression, suicide, cutting, sadness, eating disorders, relationship problems, trust issues, violent mood swings, lack of sleep, anxiety, stress, poor concentration, poor communication, self-harm, abuse, neglect... It's important to note that while there are a wide range of reasons for why children come to the hospital, every single one of them has a low self-esteem. Almost every single child I have worked with in the last three years thinks very little of themselves.

After I read their responses, I provide them with resources to read, write, view, represent, play, think and talk about. In a very real sense, I am tailoring a personal curriculum for each and every child based on their personal needs. Without at least some input from the child, I would have a very difficult time providing them with something relevant to their lives. I know this because I've tried to give kids resources and learning opportunities without asking them about their lives and their needs and it did not go well.

Every day is different from the last. Children come and go quickly, so I have to be prepared to listen to their needs and have a timely and informative plan. 

First, I provide every student with a journal. I buy a variety of journals from discount or dollar stores and tell the children that it is their own private journal and that no one will read it unless they invite someone to do so. Their journal is a place where they can curate all of their thoughts and feelings that arise from all of the things they learn.

It's important to note that I subscribe to Dr. Ross Greene's approach, so I believe that children will be successful if they can. Doing well is always more desirable than not doing well, so when a child is not doing well, it is likely because their environment is demanding skills that they are lagging. I use the Assessment for Lagging Skills and Unsolved Problems to frame my conversations with students, parents, and colleagues.

I continue to collect and curate a number of engaging activities that address some of the problems that are plaguing children. Here are some examples of the resources I provide students depending on their needs:

Eating Disorders. For children who have an eating disorder, I provide them with a copy of Life Without Ed by Jenni Schaefer. It is a reader friendly book that is accessible and appropriate for even reluctant or struggling readers. Schaefer encourages people to identify their eating disorder as a separate identity by naming it Ed or Edie; her book is made up of bite size (pun intended) chapters that detail how eating disorders are about constant self-criticism, loss of self-esteem, and unrelenting perfectionism. I also provide students with Shaefer's second book Goodby Ed, Hello me. We also do projects like this that focus on the effects media and technology have on self image, self-esteem and self-worth.

Depression. For children who are profoundly sad and/or depressed, I focus on having them learn about how they can alter their lifestyle in order to move their mood. I provide them with a copy of Brain Rules by John Medina. Some of the most popular chapters include exercise, sleep and stress. I also provide them with a copy of John Ratey's book Spark where we read chapter 4 on anxiety and chapter 5 on depression where Ratey shows that exercise is as effective as certain medications for treating anxiety and depression. I also use the video Twenty Three and Half Hours by Dr. Mike Evans. We also discuss I had a black dog, it's name is depression.

Anger. For children who have difficulty with their anger, I provide them with a little book called 30-Minute Therapy for Anger. Anger is an emotion that is managed not cured, because it is entirely appropriate for us to become outraged by the outrageous. The difference between successful people and unsuccessful people is not that one gets angry and the other doesn't. We all get angry. Successful people manage their anger adaptively and productively, while unsuccessful people have difficulty managing emotional response to frustration so as to think rationally.

Isolation. When things are at their worst, do you turn to people or things? When we turn to things to solve our problems, we look really bad, so we isolate ourselves because we don't want others to see us doing things that make us look bad. Meanwhile, we become consumed with shame and guilt. Isolation begets isolation and over time we develop an acute fear of being judged which keeps us from turning to people, so we isolate more and continue to turn to things.  I often provide children with a copy of Brene Brown's book The Gifts of Imperfection where we learn that the best things in life are not things; because things can only ever take from us, they can't give us what we need. What we really need is a connection with people through healthy relationships. Things are impostors for connection, and when we substitute people for things, we are corrupting our connections and sabotaging ourselves. Children who isolate often have difficulty considering a range of solutions to a problem, starting conversations, entering groups, connecting with people, and attending to or accurately interpreting social cues and nuances.

Hate school. For too many children, school is a place they go to be told they are not good at anything. For too many children, school is a daily exercise in being forced to passively sit through out-of-context and purposeless lectures, worksheets and quizzes that hold no relevance to their life. For these kids, I ask them about what greases their gears, blows their hair back and floats their boat. By far the most disheartening answer I can hear from a child is "nothing". We are all born with a love for learning, and when I meet a child who has lost that loving feeling, I know that something very bad has happened to them. Too many children experience school as a place where they are told they are stupid. For these kids, I try and rekindle their love for learning by empowering them to rethink school.

Adults tend to cause the most trouble for children when we assume they already have the necessary emotional, behavioural and intellectual skills to navigate successfully through their day. Trying to understand a child who has an eating disorder or who is profoundly depressed might be impossible for someone who has never experienced an eating disorder or depression. But that might be okay, because when children are experiencing these difficulties sometimes what they need most is for us to just believe that what they are experiencing is their reality. I'll put it another way -- these children are not giving the adults in their life a hard time; they are having a hard time.

The gross majority of the children I see in the hospital have nothing wrong with their DNA. They are not retarded or psychotic. These children suffer from something much worse and that is abuse and neglect.

The difference between the children I spend my day with and you and me is not that these kids are experiencing a challenging childhood. Everyone has to some extent a challenging childhood.

The difference between the children I spend my day with and you and me is not that we were resilient in the face of frustration and refused to quit when quitting would have been easier than persisting. These children are remarkably persistant and resilient.

So what's the difference?

If I asked you to make a list of people who went out of their way to support you and help you and accept and love you unconditionally, I bet you could name names. The difference is that too many of the children I work either mistakenly place inappropriate candidates on their list or they have no list at all.

If real estate is about location, location, location -- then education is about relationships, relationships, relationships.

Anger, revenge and violence

This short story is titled The Sniper and was written by Liam O'Flaherty. I use this with students to discuss anger, revenge and violence.

by Liam O'Flaherty

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O'Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen--just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man's head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "I'm hit," he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof coverd his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.

Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards--a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.

Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper's head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it a drought. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.

When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into O'Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face.