Below is a blog posting that Jennifer Johnson emailed
me. Amazing read and very
convicting. As you know, I believe 100%
in not “doing this alone.” We need
parents, community, and each other to be a successful place for the
students. We need to all be playing on
the same team with the same information to be 100% successful….we will miss up,
but because of that trust and relationship, we will continue doing great things
and improving.
I appreciate your willingness to try and try and try again….we
need those players on our team that don’t stay down and never give up. (even when the kids do). Thank you for all you do…thanks, Jennifer for
the “Friday Flush”
Ryan Kennelly. There is always a reason why you remember their
names, even when you've known thousands, tens of thousands of names. Ryan
Kennelly. Football player. Second row. Third seat back. This is all I knew
about him after the first six weeks of school.
I didn't know the color of his eyes. I didn't know that he loved to read. I didn't know his mom wasn't around. I just knew if he didn't care enough about language arts to stay awake in class, then I didn't care enough to wake him up.
He had an F at midterm. That happens when you never complete any work. The afternoon after midterm reports went home, I flicked off my classroom light and turned to find a man standing in the classroom doorway. Ryan Kennelly stood behind him, his head down.
"Mrs. Ayres? I'm Ryan's dad." The work boots on his feet,along with his jeans and shirt were coated with dirt that can only come from hard work. He shook my hand. His hands were rough, but his fingernails were clean. "I wanted to talk to you about Ryan's grade."
His eyes were kind. He reached behind him and put his hand behind Ryan's shoulder, gently moving him up to the conversation. I noticed Ryan's eyes were the same warm brown as his dad's.
He wasn't the parent I expected for a kid who sleeps in class. I stumbled through explaining that Ryan didn't complete any work, so he was failing.
Mr. Kennelly nodded. He squeezed Ryan's shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. "Why didn't you call me?"
I didn't know five words could be filled with such disappointment. I couldn't answer him because the truth was so wrong: I didn't think you'd care.
He spoke again, "Now he can't play football. It's the one good thing in his life right now. We're just trying to get through. If I knew, then I would have helped Ryan get his work completed. I just didn't know."
My stomach twisted, knowing the mistake I made was because of my own misjudgment. "I'm sorry," I said. Then I gave him the work which Ryan brought to school complete the following day. I went to the principal and admitted my mistake, showing Ryan's current grade now that the work was turned in. I wrote a letter, asking for Ryan to be allowed to return to the football team.
It's a mistake I didn't make again. We're just trying to get through, Mr. Kennelly's voice haunts me from time to time. Now, fifteen years later and a mother to four, I know what he meant.
Tonight I had a meeting with one of my kids' teachers. She's a first year teacher and, like every first year teacher, is making some mistakes. I'm on the other side of the table this time. I hope my eyes are kind.
For the entire meeting I can't shake Ryan Kennelly from my mind.
I extend grace.
"Tomorrow is a new day," I said. "Let's just be glad we're not brain surgeons. They don't usually get a second chance."
The new teacher smiles, even laughs a little. It's going to be okay. This is education at its finest -- learning and growing from our mistakes.
I didn't know the color of his eyes. I didn't know that he loved to read. I didn't know his mom wasn't around. I just knew if he didn't care enough about language arts to stay awake in class, then I didn't care enough to wake him up.
He had an F at midterm. That happens when you never complete any work. The afternoon after midterm reports went home, I flicked off my classroom light and turned to find a man standing in the classroom doorway. Ryan Kennelly stood behind him, his head down.
"Mrs. Ayres? I'm Ryan's dad." The work boots on his feet,along with his jeans and shirt were coated with dirt that can only come from hard work. He shook my hand. His hands were rough, but his fingernails were clean. "I wanted to talk to you about Ryan's grade."
His eyes were kind. He reached behind him and put his hand behind Ryan's shoulder, gently moving him up to the conversation. I noticed Ryan's eyes were the same warm brown as his dad's.
He wasn't the parent I expected for a kid who sleeps in class. I stumbled through explaining that Ryan didn't complete any work, so he was failing.
Mr. Kennelly nodded. He squeezed Ryan's shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. "Why didn't you call me?"
I didn't know five words could be filled with such disappointment. I couldn't answer him because the truth was so wrong: I didn't think you'd care.
He spoke again, "Now he can't play football. It's the one good thing in his life right now. We're just trying to get through. If I knew, then I would have helped Ryan get his work completed. I just didn't know."
My stomach twisted, knowing the mistake I made was because of my own misjudgment. "I'm sorry," I said. Then I gave him the work which Ryan brought to school complete the following day. I went to the principal and admitted my mistake, showing Ryan's current grade now that the work was turned in. I wrote a letter, asking for Ryan to be allowed to return to the football team.
It's a mistake I didn't make again. We're just trying to get through, Mr. Kennelly's voice haunts me from time to time. Now, fifteen years later and a mother to four, I know what he meant.
Tonight I had a meeting with one of my kids' teachers. She's a first year teacher and, like every first year teacher, is making some mistakes. I'm on the other side of the table this time. I hope my eyes are kind.
For the entire meeting I can't shake Ryan Kennelly from my mind.
I extend grace.
"Tomorrow is a new day," I said. "Let's just be glad we're not brain surgeons. They don't usually get a second chance."
The new teacher smiles, even laughs a little. It's going to be okay. This is education at its finest -- learning and growing from our mistakes.
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