What Do We Do When They Speak a Language No One Understands? | Writing

By Katherine McNeil

EDITOR'S NOTE: Katherine McNeil teaches in a self-contained classroom for students with severe behavior disorders at Northwood Junior High School in Renton, Washington. Her innovative, award-winning approach draws on her own history. Through high school, she was a struggling student whose teachers called her "lazy, unmotivated, and immature." Not until age 33 did she gather the courage to enroll in college. There, she discovered that she has profound learning disabilities and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). She also learned that "with tremendous effort, I could learn." She has been learning ever since. In 1992, she became the first person in her family to graduate from college. In 2000, she earned a master's degree. Now, in addition to coordinating Northwood's JAG Program, which stands for Just Achieving Greatness, this Special Education teacher and behavioral specialist is enrolled in the Education Leadership doctoral program at Seattle University.

At one time or another, they have been in every classroom in this nation. Voices in the staff lounge carry the stories of frustration and anger in dealing with "them." They are the bane of the educational system. Who are they? They are students with behavior disorders.

Oh, the stories I have heard about these students. At various times, educators, administrators, and the public have offered numerous comments and solutions to what ails these students. One educator told me, "The only thing these kids need is some good ol' butt whippin' to straighten them up." When I told him that most of these students have been verbally, physically, and sexually abused and that corporal punishment has accomplished little, he just said that if they come into his classroom, they will either shape up or he will ship them out.

Another time a teacher told me that no teacher should be made to teach "those" kids. "I don't have enough time as it is to deal with 'regular' kids. I don't know what they need. But they are not going to come into my classroom and screw it up for the others." Sitting with administrators, some teachers lament the never-ending referral of students for placement into programs for students with behavior disorders. They wonder out loud how it is that referrals mirror the national statistics: male, students of color, single-parent household, and of lower socioeconomic status. This is followed by the question: "Why?"

I have no solution to the larger problem. But I know why. Most educators, parents, administrators do not understand that these students are speaking loud and clear. Their language, however, is not understood by many. They tell a teacher Monday morning when they arrive at school that their father has beaten them over the weekend. How do they communicate this? This is a dialogue that I recently had with a student:

Monday morning 7:30 a.m.: A male student, 15, walks through my classroom door. "Good morning. How did your weekend go?" He looks at me with fire in his eyes and replies, "Fu** You, Bi*ch." My heart sinks as I reply to him in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry you're angry. You know that language is not appropriate, but I am here if you need someone to talk to."

This student rarely spoke to me in this manner, but I understood his language all too well. You see, I used to speak in his language. He behaved in this manner every time his mother let his father move back in. The family has a history of verbal and physical abuse. Being the oldest, he has borne the brunt of his father's drug- and alcohol-induced rages. Simply, behavior is language; and a powerful language, which few can translate.

Their stories make my heart ache. Students who enter my program have very little desire to be in school. The common threads that run through all the stories are pain, rejection, isolation, and academic failure. When our team convenes an intake meeting, these students view me uneasily and with a great amount of distrust. I ask them what their previous educational experience has been like. Students usually end their stories by looking directly in my eyes. They search to see what my eyes tell them. I just smile and nod with deep understanding.

What they hear next is "the promise." I promise each student who enters my program that every day they enter my classroom they are guaranteed four things:

They will be loved and told they are loved by myself and my staff.

They will be cared for and told they are cared about by myself and my staff.

Each day is a new day... a chance for a do-over. Nothing is held against them.

If my staff or myself ever makes a mistake that impacts them, we will publicly apologize to them.

Over the past three years as I have made these promises, I have seen cold hard stares replaced by quizzical looks or even with ones of hope. These are students whom other teachers do not want, and they know this. I welcome each and every one of them to my program. Yes, there have been students who have entered my program with what I can only describe as having wild behaviors. I have been bitten, kicked, hit, spit at, and threatened. However, I never lower my expectations for academic and behavioral excellence. I will never, ever give up on any student. I know all too well that their behavior is language. They speak loud and clear about the injustices that they have had to endure during their brief lives. These young men and women should be celebrating the joys of life, but many just try to survive the ravages of verbal and sexual abuse, dysfunctional families, substance abuse, and absent parents.

This program is different. When a student steps into the classroom, the first thing he notices is how this environment is drastically different from any other BD classroom he may have been in. It has been my experience that most BD classrooms are filled with broken tables and chairs. The curriculum consists of cast-offs from out-of-date district surplus items. And in many instances, there is no regular Special Education teacher, only a revolving door of substitutes. All of these situations give the students the message that they are not worth the investment. It is my heartfelt belief that the needs of these students have been put off for way too long.

I refuse to wait any longer for funding to meet the needs of my students, even if that means spending my personal funds. During the past three years, I have purchased computers with my own money to supplement the two that the school provides. However, each student in a class of 15 now has a computer to facilitate his or her learning. That means they don't have to wait their turn at the computer to capture an idea in words or revise their writing until it's in polished form. They don't have to go to the computer lab where, in a less structured environment, behaviors can escalate. In our classroom, they learn history from a variety of primary sources. They are able to read, understand, and write about the plays of Shakespeare by using technology to support their learning. And through grant writing, we have assembled the equipment they can use to build and program robots.

Children are guided by the adults in their lives, and these young people need to have hope that there are adults who understand and care—adults who have a plan for success in their lives, adults they can trust. Children live up to the standards that are set before them. In a caring, secure environment these students can once again reach for the sky, despite their backgrounds, disability, and previous learning experience.

To learn more about Northwood's JAG Program, visit the program Web site at www.seanet.com/~kmcneil/JAG. To read more about how McNeil has used technology to help her students understand and write about the plays of William Shakespeare, check out www.intel.com/education/odyssey (Day 209).