What a Fallen Dedicated Educator Taught Me About Supporting Struggling Kids
I’m sitting on the floor of my 2nd grade classroom, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of Ms. Rita’s things, peeling a T-Rex sticker off the side of her dented rolling cart. She passed suddenly last November, over Thanksgiving break, right before we were set to come back for parent-teacher conferences. She was 62, had taught 2nd grade at this elementary for 38 years, and when the principal asked if I wanted her old supplies for my first year here, I said yes before I even thought about it.
Her black spiral notebook is tucked in the bottom drawer, cover crinkled from being stuffed in a tote bag every day. It’s not the official district behavior log or the IEP tracking binder. It’s just her own, messy handwriting, notes jotted between lesson plans and grocery lists. The first entry I flip to is about Jax, a student I now have in my class this year. “10/12: Jax shut himself in the coat closet again during reading. Left his peanut butter granola bar by the door. Didn’t knock. Came out after 12 minutes, colored the whole state map I left on the shelf by the baskets. Didn’t ask for permission, just did it.”
Jax’s mom emailed me before the first day of school, told me Jax has dyslexia that wasn’t diagnosed until last year, and before Ms. Rita, he’d been sent to the office at least once a week for “defiant behavior” – hiding, walking out of circle time, crumpling up his worksheets. She said every other teacher told her Jax just needed to learn to follow rules, that he was holding the whole class back. Ms. Rita never sent him once.
First day of school this year, sure enough, five minutes into reading circle, Jax slid off his chair and slipped into the coat closet, pulling the door almost shut behind him. I tensed up for half a second, my first instinct being to call after him, to remind him of our classroom rules we’d just gone over. Then I remembered Ms. Rita’s notebook. I grabbed a dinosaur sticker from her stash (the whole top shelf of her closet is still full of them, unopened packs) and a graham cracker from my snack bin, set them down on the floor just outside the door, and kept reading Where the Wild Things Are like nothing had happened. Ten minutes later, I saw the door inch open a crack, and a small hand reach out to grab the sticker.
That’s the thing no one talks about much when it comes to working with struggling kids, right? All the training focuses on formal behavior plans, diagnostic testing, data tracking – all things that matter, don’t get me wrong. But Ms. Rita spent 38 years doing the small, unglamorous stuff that doesn’t show up on report cards or district benchmarks. And it’s stuff any parent or teacher can do, no extra training or big budget required.
For example, if a kid needs to step away, don’t make them apologize or explain their feelings first before they go. Ms. Rita never made Jax say “I’m sorry” for leaving circle time. She just let him go, and left something small to let him know she wasn’t mad, and she was waiting when he was ready. If you’re a parent at a crowded family holiday, and your kid slips off to the car because the noise is too much, you don’t have to chase them down and force them to “be polite” and stay with the group. Just leave a plate of cookies by the door and let them stay as long as they need. It takes 10 seconds, and it changes everything for a kid who feels overwhelmed.
Another small habit I picked up from her notebook: write down one small positive observation about a struggling kid every day, instead of just noting what they did wrong. Ms. Rita’s notebook has pages of this: “Jax helped Mia pick up her crayons when she dropped them today” “Jax can put the whole US puzzle together faster than anyone in the class” “Jax laughed at my bad knock knock joke about turtles.” It’s easy to only see the misbehavior when a kid is acting out every day, but writing down one small good thing takes 30 seconds at the end of the day, and it changes how you show up for them the next morning. I do this now, even on days when I’m exhausted and just want to drive straight home after school.
Third, don’t sacrifice the kid’s need to stick to your schedule. Ms. Rita once told Jax’s mom that the rest of the class wasn’t hurt by Jax taking a break. They didn’t need Jax sitting in circle time miserable to learn how to read. She could adjust five minutes of her lesson plan to let him do what he needed. For parents, that might mean skipping the big group birthday activity your kid was supposed to join because they’re overstimulated, instead of pushing through to stick to the plan. No one’s day is ruined because you adjust.
Last week, Jax came out of the closet after 15 minutes, walked over to my desk, and pulled out the easy reader he’d been working on. He stood next to me and read the whole first page out loud, slow, stumbling over half the words, but he did it. I wrote that down in Ms. Rita’s notebook, at the bottom of the page where she left off. I still keep the notebook in the drawer of her rolling cart, which I use every day. The faint coffee stain on the handle is still there, from the cup she left on it the day she left for break.
The school is putting a small plaque up by the after-school garden Ms. Rita started, which I still help run. That’s nice, but I don’t think honoring her really needs a plaque. It’s the small stuff: letting a kid hide in the closet, leaving a sticker by the door, writing down one good thing a day. Jax still struggles. Some days he stays in the closet the whole reading block. Some days he crumples up his worksheets and refuses to do math. But he’s not getting sent to the office anymore. His mom says he doesn’t fake stomach aches to stay home from school anymore. That’s enough, for now. It’s all Ms. Rita ever asked for, anyway.
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