What I Saw As A 4th Grade Teacher That Proves Schools Need More Emotional Education
Last April, I sat across from Leo’s mom at my 4th grade conference desk, a half-erased math worksheet stuck under my chair and a crumpled T-Rex drawing peeking out of my trash can. Leo had aced every state math and reading test that year, his scores landed him in the gifted program, but his mom kept twisting the strap of her canvas grocery tote and wouldn’t meet my eye. “He told me he doesn’t see the point of going anymore,” she said. “Says no one likes him, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.”
I’d seen it play out all semester. Leo can rattle off all 50 state capitals before morning announcements even finish, but when a kid teases him about his thick plastic glasses, he either freezes up or punches a hole in his paper. Back in February, he got sent to the principal’s office for knocking over a classmate’s entire block castle after the kid laughed at the peanut butter sandwich Leo brought for lunch. When I asked him what happened, he just shrugged and said “I don’t know” over and over. He couldn’t name the feeling bubbling up in his chest, so he acted on it instead.
Our school isn’t unusual. We cut our full-time school counselor position to part-time three years ago to free up budget for another reading interventionist, to bump up our test scores. When kids act out, we give timeouts or detention, we send a note home, we check the box for misbehavior. We don’t carve out time to talk about what’s going on inside their heads before the misbehavior happens.
I got tired of it after that conference with Leo’s mom. I didn’t ask the administration for permission or a new expensive curriculum. I just started taking five minutes at the start of each day, right after attendance, to go around the room and have every kid say one word for how they’re feeling that morning. No explanations, no follow-up questions if they don’t want to. Just the word. I taped a sheet of poster paper to the wall by the door with 20 common feelings listed, so kids who couldn’t think of a word could point. The list includes things kids don’t usually hear talked about: humiliated, jealous, overwhelmed, relieved, restless.
At first, every kid just said “fine” or “good”. No one wanted to be the first to say anything else. Then three weeks in, it was Leo’s turn. He mumbled “crushed”. I just nodded and moved on to the next kid, just like I always did. After class, he hung back by my desk, kicking the leg of the chair, until everyone else left. He told me the kid who sat next to him had been hiding his pencil case every day that week, and he didn’t know what to say to make him stop. He’d never told anyone that before.
That’s the thing no one talks about when they argue about test scores or curriculum: most kids don’t know how to name what they’re feeling, so they can’t ask for help. Leo thought he was just “angry” all the time, but when he looked at the poster, he realized the tight feeling in his chest when people teased him was humiliation. It’s hard to fix a problem you can’t name.
I’ve changed how I talk to kids after misbehavior too, just a small shift. I used to ask “why did you do that” and get the same shrug every time. Now I ask “what did you feel right before you did that”. Nine times out of ten, they have an answer. “He cut me in line and I felt so jealous I couldn’t breathe.” “My mom yelled at me this morning and I took it out on my notebook.” It doesn’t fix the problem right away, but it’s the first step.
Parents can do this too, at home, without any extra work. Instead of asking “how was school” at dinner, which almost always gets “fine”, ask them to share one word for how their day went. Keep a small feelings chart on the fridge if your kid is younger. It takes 30 seconds, no prep needed.
Leo still has bad days. Last month, he pushed a kid off the swing at recess because the kid cut in line and he didn’t speak up first. But after, he came to my room afterward and said “I forgot to say I was mad first. I should’ve told the yard teacher instead.” That’s more progress than any perfect test score could give me.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t teach math or reading. I know closing achievement gaps matters. But I’ve watched too many bright, capable kids leave elementary school already convinced they don’t fit in, that something’s wrong with them, just because no one ever taught them how to sort through the messy stuff in their heads. You can’t expect a kid to focus on a long division worksheet when they’re carrying around an unnameable weight they don’t know how to talk about.
Right now, our school still only has a part-time counselor, and we still do 15 minutes of test practice every morning. No big district-wide initiative has been approved, and I don’t know when that will happen. But the five minute check-ins have stuck, even when I’m exhausted and tempted to skip it for more reading time. More kids than just Leo raise their hand to say they’re overwhelmed or lonely now, instead of acting out to get attention. Last week, Leo turned in that crumpled T-Rex drawing for the school art show. It’s hanging in the hallway by the office. No one knows yet if he won, but he brought an extra copy home for his mom to put on the fridge.
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