I know that the banner across the top of our blog reads teacher leaders tell stories about how policy decisions impact learning and teaching in their classrooms. I freely admit that this post strays from our purpose more than a little and I hope my fellow bloggers will get us back on track with their next posts. So I digress:

My second year teaching, I somehow earned the reputation that I could handle the "tougher" kids. Perhaps I was (still am) naive to interpret this as a compliment of my classroom management, strategies, and dedication to respecting every student–nonetheless, I've had a number of my most favorite students enter my classroom "on conditions." Sometimes they've bounced through other teachers with whom they butted heads, sometimes they've failed other classes and it was time to try my teaching style on for fit.

By no means do I claim to work magic–but sometimes things just work well. This was the case with the young man who I am thinking about tonight. His freshman year, he was placed in my class part way through the school year, because the counselors had a feeling that we might get along. And he is one of those kids who I knew, from the time I met him, that I'd always remember.

First of all, the kid never stopped smiling. He'd spot me through the crowded halls or locker bays and wave up high, shouting hello with his huge smile, bright enough to outshine everything else. And you only needed to be around him a minute or two to know how passionate he was about riding dirtbikes. 

He had to work harder than other kids in order to achieve success in school. My class was not a cakewalk for him; we invested some time before and after class, and I can still picture him hunkered down at his desk near the window, writing away, wrestling with the work, then bringing it up proudly for me to review. And I remember him being one of the few kids with the bravery to ask the questions that everyone else was thinking in sheepish silence.

That year, my second year of teaching, I had about four weeks at the end of second semester that I couldn't quite find the right "thing" to cap off the curriculum. I was debating some nonfiction reading, some research, some writing, a short novella. John asked if we could do something related to dirtbikes.

Instantly, I felt it was the right idea. I then pulled together this unit titled "Life is about finding the answers to your own questions," where each student was charged with discovering what they wanted to know more about–and while my teacherly goal had to do with MLA research and how to integrate sources into an expository essay since I knew they'd use this skill in 10th, 11th, and 12th grade English, my ulterior motive had to do with rekindling the childlike curiosity we all begin our lives enjoying but which somehow gets edged out of school learnin'. 

The best word I can think of to describe my students' response to my pitch: giddiness. 

I could barely hold them back. John was the king of this task–from day one he knew exactly what he wanted to do. And from day one he also started his campaign to have me let him bring his dirtbike to school for the culminating speech following his formal research.

Finals week, we had presentations on everything from how the brain works to the artistry of ballet and from how diesel engines work to how laughter affects our psyche. Students dove into their task with gusto. John as well put in more effort than I'd ever seen. 

I vividly remember the day that I took his whole class outside so he could present his speech about the research he'd done–he was all decked out in his motocross gear, standing next to his adored bike propped against the south wall of the high school. He was so engaging as he spoke with such passion and expertise. The entire class was engrossed and cheered him at the end, each classmate recognizing that succeeding with this research essay and presentation was a tremendous academic victory for John. I was likewise so enthralled that I neglected to pay attention to the fact that he went five minutes over the maximum time for the presentation (and I used my professional discretion to ignore that part of the scoring rubric).

This young man had not had much success in school, and the road which followed that day was not easy. I didn't see him much over the years, but whenever I did, he always greeted me with a smile. That image of his infectious grin and his pride and joy in the June sun with his classmates enthralled by his passion–I'll never forget that. He may have come to me as a "tough" kid, but I never saw whatever it was that led him to be handed to me that year. He was a sheer joy to have in my classroom and never once did I see anything but that brilliant and innocent smile. To this day, I still end the year with the same research unit where students get to explore whatever their passion may be; I just presented it to my freshmen last week, and used John's example and spoke of how that task brought out the fire in him–which brought the fire out in me as well. 

You can probably guess where this is going. Sunday night, a headline on the website of our county newspaper stated that a young local man had died in an early morning car accident. Whenever I see such headlines, though my heart is with whomever lost a loved one, I always hope that I don't recognize the name. Unfortunately this time, for the first time in my career as a teacher, I did.