Too little, too late

My second year of teaching was at a small NC mountain high school as a Title I reading teacher, working with 9th and 10th graders who were not served by the special education program. One day the senior English teacher came to me and said that she was curious about a student who was a discipline problem in her class. M. was almost always absent on test days and if there was classroom reading or board work to be done, he usually ended up being sent to the principal for acting out. I was not legally able to serve seniors (sure hope the statute of limitations is up here!), but I told her I'd take a look.

The next day during my planning period, a burly football player came to my room, furious. "I don't know what that stupid teacher is talking about, I don't have no reading problem," he shouted. "Well, let's just make her happy by taking a look and sending you back," I replied. He was not appeased but he did sit down. I pulled out a graded reading assessment and asked him to read the fifth grade level paragraph. He tried, but he couldn't. I dropped down to third grade, then second, and finally first. He stumbled over the very simple sentences in the first grade paragraph and finally stopped. We sat in silence for a moment and then he began to cry, first just tears streaming down his face and then heartrending sobs. "I've never been able to read," he finally choked out. Anything I could say seemed inadequate, but finally I told him that he must be very smart to have fooled so many people for so long. When I asked him if he wanted help, he nodded.

That began his daily trips to my room as I tried desperately to make up for twelve years of lost time. I had to tell him that I was breaking a rule by serving him and that if he ever saw a strange adult in the room, he needed to just keep walking. If my district supervisor was there, he'd walk in, quickly assess the situation, and tell me he had come to get my car keys and take my car to the shop class to change my oil. I've never had a smoother running car than I did that year.

Eventually the principal noticed how much time M. was spending in my room and called me to the office. I admitted that I was working with the boy and he proceeded to ream me out, pointing out the legal ramifications if I were caught. Then I told him why. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at me and said, "Well, I guess we'll BOTH just have to go to prison if we get caught." I loved that man!

I had neither the knowledge nor the time to really teach him how to read. I made sure he had survival vocabulary and could spell his girlfriend's name, which, unfortunately, was Debbie, a dyslexic's nightmare. He graduated and went on to get a manual labor job. I've often wondered what happened to him. Early intervention is so important; by the time a kid is in the twelfth grade, it's just too late.