Late Bloomer
Mar. 16th, 2010 09:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
falcongrrlHer name, like Leo's, starts with L. It's not all they have in common.
She's got pigtailed ringlets and a gap-faced grin, but her large brown eyes hold secrets. I suspect something at home, but I can't know that, not really. Sometimes her face turns mullish, usually when Mrs. K is frustrated with her. She's not the kind of child to burst into tears; she's the kind to turn inward and just go to another place. When she does that, her face looks blank and uncaring, and Mrs. K looks even more frustrated.
L can't read.
She's in first grade, so this isn't the tragedy it becomes in, say, fourth grade, or seventh grade. Lots of kids can't read or can't read well in first grade. Whether it's a developmental thing, a second language issue, or a processing deficiency, I don't know enough about L at this point to say. Primary reading instruction is something I only know about insofar as it's related to my own kids. It definitely has nothing to do with an English degree, and I didn't get it in my alternate certification education coursework either. Being a former ESOL teacher, I suspect she's got language-related issues, but I can't know for sure.
My job in Mrs. K's classroom is simple: I organize Accelerated Reader while Mrs. K is doing the regular class routine. I call kids up to log onto the computer and take their tests. If the recorded voice isn't available, I read the questions for the students. I try to do that for everyone, though some of the kids prefer to read it for themselves. Not all of the students who prefer to read by themselves actually can, though. I try to listen to them whispering the words and help discreetly if they need it.
However, L likes me to read for her. She can be a bit needy about it. If I were thinking, I'd probably try to go by ability - and maybe I will do that next time - have kids who are high readers at the computers with kids who struggle, so I won't be trying to read for, say, three struggling readers at one time at a four computer station because those books just didn't have recorded voice available. Instead, I tend to go by where they are in their work - calling up kids who are finished with the math problem or haven't started it, as opposed to kids who are obviously engaged and working.
L got a one out of five on Leo. It was the third time she'd taken it, too. So Mrs. K told L. she needed to read her AR book with me instead of taking her turn at the coveted "teacher" role when going over the calendar with one's fellow students. Inwardly I groaned. Not just working with a low kid - who could be stubborn - but a low kid who could be stubborn who's just been told she has to read with me instead of doing a fun leader/helper role, one that it was her turn to do. But dutifully we make it over to the table, crinkly transparent-material covered hardback school library picture book in tow.
I sit at the table with her, thankful to have a me-sized chair instead of perching myself precariously onto a first-grade sized seat. "Leo the late bloomer," I read aloud, noting the idiomatic expression inwardly to myself. "L, what's a late bloomer?"
Her voice is high-pitched and oh-so-dutiful. "A late bloomer is...a late bloomer is something that is late to bloom." I suspect she doesn't quite know what this means, but it sounds like what she's supposed to say. I take a breath and try again. "Flowers bloom, right?" She nods.
I try to think of an example. "Late bloomer is something we say about people, not just flowers. Like, Ellie was a late bloomer with talking. She didn't talk when she was a kid; she just pointed at things. So we'd say Ellie was a late bloomer with talking." L. might or might not be listening.
"I was a late bloomer with tying my shoes," I say. This is a true story. L looks at me now, interested in spite of herself, a little amused by this big friendly non-shoe tying mom. She actually sneaks a peek down at my sandal-clad feet. I warm into my story. "See, I'm not even wearing shoes that tie now! But back then, my cousins could all tie their shoes; my friends could all tie their shoes...but I just couldn't figure out how to do it. I was a late bloomer with tying my shoes." She's grinning now, and I start the book. "Leo was a late bloomer. Aww. Look at the picture. How does he look?" "Sad?" she offers. "Yeah! He looks so sad, right? Let's see what's going to happen to him."
We go through the book, and both of us are pretty into it. It's a really terrific book, about a little tiger who can't read or write or eat neatly or even speak. Leo's tiger father is very worried about him; he fears Leo will never bloom. But Leo's mother says, "Patience."
I interrupt the narrative. "What does patience mean?" I ask L. "Patience means wait," she says. "Yes," I say. "Excellent. Patience means wait. Leo's mama knows he just needs a little time."
During this whole time with me, L truly seems to want to read. She can sometimes recognize the same sight word more than once, but other times she can't. Sometimes she gets letters mixed up. I focus on initial sounds, reading left to right, and I read most of the book with/for her. Sometimes I read a sentence and then stop on a word, letting her figure it out. I try to focus on words she'll remember or glean from context. Most of the time this works reasonably well. I praise her sometimes, ignoring or gently correcting mistakes.
Meanwhile, Leo's father tries to follow Leo around and watch everything he does. Neither L. nor I think this is a good tactic. We both agree emphatically with Leo's mom: "A watched bloomer never blooms." L., looking at the illustrations, thinks the dad is sneaking peeks at Leo and needs to just stop it. I consider refocusing on the text - the AR quiz will test her on that, not the pictoral interpretations - but let it go. The illustrations are engaging and she likes the book; that part matters too.
After we finish the book once, we read it again. Part of the AR experience, at least in the primary grades, is the idea that the student needs to read the book at least three times before they test. Ellie is a real stickler about this, and will refuse to take a test on a book she's only read - say - twice. L says that we need to read the book again, so we do. Based on what we've just experienced, I'd hazard the guess that although she's tested on this book three times, this is the first time she's really been exposed to the text on a meaningful level.
(Someone is brushing the hair neatly, winding the elastics around fine black hair. Someone may even be putting the hair in curlers. Someone is likely picking out L's clothes and making her breakfast. But no one is reading to her in English at home. It may be a language issue, or there may be some chaos. I suspect both. But I can't know.)
The second time through, L. reads the book much more fluently, in a way that most parents of preschoolers would recognize. That is to say, she's not reading it, but she already has the book mostly-memorized, and she's taking cues from the illustrations. She's got the intelligence to pick most of it up, but there are times when her paraphrase is pretty far away from what's on the page. I try to guide her back to the page, helping her through it again. Both of our attentions are starting to wander a bit at this point, but we make it through.
Mrs. K has already cleared her to retest, so we dutifully go over to the computers. This is where I'm, well, a big cheater, because I know that I want this child to do well on this test, and if I have to give her vocal hints I will. But L. signs up to do the recorded voice, so I don't really have the chance to bias her. She points to the correct answer for the first two questions, then looks at me tentatively, in a way that is a little heartbreaking. I nod heartily. Not cheating, not as much as I would have been willing to - just saying, "Yes, yes, you're right." The last three she does on her own, decisively clicking the right answer once it's read to her.
"5 out of 5...all right!" I say, high-fiving her quietly. She goes back to her seat, and I let Mrs. K know.
She addresses L. "So, the discussion helped you? You were able to take it then? Uh-huh!" I can't read Mrs. K on this. It sounds a little like she's saying L. should have done this before. I don't know if L's capable of doing this on her own, or if she has other people to do it with her. I'm afraid my own "great job!" has belied L.'s real competence level, or lack thereof.
So I try to talk to Mrs. K about it softly, while the kids are doing seatwork. "L really did a great job listening," I say. "She's a smart girl and she's picking up on the story quickly. But she doesn't seem to actually be decoding many words. At all." I'm thinking L. may be able to hear me, and I'm a volunteer - I'm probably not supposed to be saying this anyway. She could be SLD, I want to say. This kid needs help, I want to say. But I can't.
What I did say maybe wasn't the right thing. I feel Mrs. K. bristle. She goes a into teacher-talking-to-a-parent mode that I recognize. "Well, that's why we have interventions for her," she explains to me patiently in a defensive, let-me-do-my-job kind of voice.
I turn my hands over, my gesture one of surrender. "I just thought I should let you know," I say softly.
She nods, mollified. "Thank you for telling me," she says, her voice still crisp but less defensive. I think. "And thank you for working with L. L., did you thank Mrs. B for working with you?" I look down. I don't need thanks. To L., I say, "I enjoyed it. That was a great book, wasn't it?"
But when I look at her, L. isn't thanking me. She's looking at me with her arms outstretched, fully wide, in that universal symbol. So I walk over and give her a hug. "Thank you Mrs. B." she says.
This seems to give the class some kind of permission, and they're all waving at me and calling out "Bye Mrs. B!" as I leave. I worry that Mrs. K hates this - it's a disruption. But it's also hard to ignore cute waving first graders. I hug Ellie quickly and tell her goodbye. And then - crazily, because I really shouldn't do this - I blow all the kids a kiss before I walk out the door.
I make it almost all the way home before I realize I'm crying.
"I made it," is what Leo says at the end of the book. It is the first sentence he ever speaks. By the time he says it, he's also reading, writing his name in cursive with extra flourishes, and eating (fruit - as tigers love grapes in this fictional universe) neatly.
"I made it," Leo says. It's what I hope - one day - L. will say too.
In the meantime, part of me wants to bring her books and read to her - in English and Spanish - every single day.
I can't. It's not my job. But I want to.
She's got pigtailed ringlets and a gap-faced grin, but her large brown eyes hold secrets. I suspect something at home, but I can't know that, not really. Sometimes her face turns mullish, usually when Mrs. K is frustrated with her. She's not the kind of child to burst into tears; she's the kind to turn inward and just go to another place. When she does that, her face looks blank and uncaring, and Mrs. K looks even more frustrated.
L can't read.
She's in first grade, so this isn't the tragedy it becomes in, say, fourth grade, or seventh grade. Lots of kids can't read or can't read well in first grade. Whether it's a developmental thing, a second language issue, or a processing deficiency, I don't know enough about L at this point to say. Primary reading instruction is something I only know about insofar as it's related to my own kids. It definitely has nothing to do with an English degree, and I didn't get it in my alternate certification education coursework either. Being a former ESOL teacher, I suspect she's got language-related issues, but I can't know for sure.
My job in Mrs. K's classroom is simple: I organize Accelerated Reader while Mrs. K is doing the regular class routine. I call kids up to log onto the computer and take their tests. If the recorded voice isn't available, I read the questions for the students. I try to do that for everyone, though some of the kids prefer to read it for themselves. Not all of the students who prefer to read by themselves actually can, though. I try to listen to them whispering the words and help discreetly if they need it.
However, L likes me to read for her. She can be a bit needy about it. If I were thinking, I'd probably try to go by ability - and maybe I will do that next time - have kids who are high readers at the computers with kids who struggle, so I won't be trying to read for, say, three struggling readers at one time at a four computer station because those books just didn't have recorded voice available. Instead, I tend to go by where they are in their work - calling up kids who are finished with the math problem or haven't started it, as opposed to kids who are obviously engaged and working.
L got a one out of five on Leo. It was the third time she'd taken it, too. So Mrs. K told L. she needed to read her AR book with me instead of taking her turn at the coveted "teacher" role when going over the calendar with one's fellow students. Inwardly I groaned. Not just working with a low kid - who could be stubborn - but a low kid who could be stubborn who's just been told she has to read with me instead of doing a fun leader/helper role, one that it was her turn to do. But dutifully we make it over to the table, crinkly transparent-material covered hardback school library picture book in tow.
I sit at the table with her, thankful to have a me-sized chair instead of perching myself precariously onto a first-grade sized seat. "Leo the late bloomer," I read aloud, noting the idiomatic expression inwardly to myself. "L, what's a late bloomer?"
Her voice is high-pitched and oh-so-dutiful. "A late bloomer is...a late bloomer is something that is late to bloom." I suspect she doesn't quite know what this means, but it sounds like what she's supposed to say. I take a breath and try again. "Flowers bloom, right?" She nods.
I try to think of an example. "Late bloomer is something we say about people, not just flowers. Like, Ellie was a late bloomer with talking. She didn't talk when she was a kid; she just pointed at things. So we'd say Ellie was a late bloomer with talking." L. might or might not be listening.
"I was a late bloomer with tying my shoes," I say. This is a true story. L looks at me now, interested in spite of herself, a little amused by this big friendly non-shoe tying mom. She actually sneaks a peek down at my sandal-clad feet. I warm into my story. "See, I'm not even wearing shoes that tie now! But back then, my cousins could all tie their shoes; my friends could all tie their shoes...but I just couldn't figure out how to do it. I was a late bloomer with tying my shoes." She's grinning now, and I start the book. "Leo was a late bloomer. Aww. Look at the picture. How does he look?" "Sad?" she offers. "Yeah! He looks so sad, right? Let's see what's going to happen to him."
We go through the book, and both of us are pretty into it. It's a really terrific book, about a little tiger who can't read or write or eat neatly or even speak. Leo's tiger father is very worried about him; he fears Leo will never bloom. But Leo's mother says, "Patience."
I interrupt the narrative. "What does patience mean?" I ask L. "Patience means wait," she says. "Yes," I say. "Excellent. Patience means wait. Leo's mama knows he just needs a little time."
During this whole time with me, L truly seems to want to read. She can sometimes recognize the same sight word more than once, but other times she can't. Sometimes she gets letters mixed up. I focus on initial sounds, reading left to right, and I read most of the book with/for her. Sometimes I read a sentence and then stop on a word, letting her figure it out. I try to focus on words she'll remember or glean from context. Most of the time this works reasonably well. I praise her sometimes, ignoring or gently correcting mistakes.
Meanwhile, Leo's father tries to follow Leo around and watch everything he does. Neither L. nor I think this is a good tactic. We both agree emphatically with Leo's mom: "A watched bloomer never blooms." L., looking at the illustrations, thinks the dad is sneaking peeks at Leo and needs to just stop it. I consider refocusing on the text - the AR quiz will test her on that, not the pictoral interpretations - but let it go. The illustrations are engaging and she likes the book; that part matters too.
After we finish the book once, we read it again. Part of the AR experience, at least in the primary grades, is the idea that the student needs to read the book at least three times before they test. Ellie is a real stickler about this, and will refuse to take a test on a book she's only read - say - twice. L says that we need to read the book again, so we do. Based on what we've just experienced, I'd hazard the guess that although she's tested on this book three times, this is the first time she's really been exposed to the text on a meaningful level.
(Someone is brushing the hair neatly, winding the elastics around fine black hair. Someone may even be putting the hair in curlers. Someone is likely picking out L's clothes and making her breakfast. But no one is reading to her in English at home. It may be a language issue, or there may be some chaos. I suspect both. But I can't know.)
The second time through, L. reads the book much more fluently, in a way that most parents of preschoolers would recognize. That is to say, she's not reading it, but she already has the book mostly-memorized, and she's taking cues from the illustrations. She's got the intelligence to pick most of it up, but there are times when her paraphrase is pretty far away from what's on the page. I try to guide her back to the page, helping her through it again. Both of our attentions are starting to wander a bit at this point, but we make it through.
Mrs. K has already cleared her to retest, so we dutifully go over to the computers. This is where I'm, well, a big cheater, because I know that I want this child to do well on this test, and if I have to give her vocal hints I will. But L. signs up to do the recorded voice, so I don't really have the chance to bias her. She points to the correct answer for the first two questions, then looks at me tentatively, in a way that is a little heartbreaking. I nod heartily. Not cheating, not as much as I would have been willing to - just saying, "Yes, yes, you're right." The last three she does on her own, decisively clicking the right answer once it's read to her.
"5 out of 5...all right!" I say, high-fiving her quietly. She goes back to her seat, and I let Mrs. K know.
She addresses L. "So, the discussion helped you? You were able to take it then? Uh-huh!" I can't read Mrs. K on this. It sounds a little like she's saying L. should have done this before. I don't know if L's capable of doing this on her own, or if she has other people to do it with her. I'm afraid my own "great job!" has belied L.'s real competence level, or lack thereof.
So I try to talk to Mrs. K about it softly, while the kids are doing seatwork. "L really did a great job listening," I say. "She's a smart girl and she's picking up on the story quickly. But she doesn't seem to actually be decoding many words. At all." I'm thinking L. may be able to hear me, and I'm a volunteer - I'm probably not supposed to be saying this anyway. She could be SLD, I want to say. This kid needs help, I want to say. But I can't.
What I did say maybe wasn't the right thing. I feel Mrs. K. bristle. She goes a into teacher-talking-to-a-parent mode that I recognize. "Well, that's why we have interventions for her," she explains to me patiently in a defensive, let-me-do-my-job kind of voice.
I turn my hands over, my gesture one of surrender. "I just thought I should let you know," I say softly.
She nods, mollified. "Thank you for telling me," she says, her voice still crisp but less defensive. I think. "And thank you for working with L. L., did you thank Mrs. B for working with you?" I look down. I don't need thanks. To L., I say, "I enjoyed it. That was a great book, wasn't it?"
But when I look at her, L. isn't thanking me. She's looking at me with her arms outstretched, fully wide, in that universal symbol. So I walk over and give her a hug. "Thank you Mrs. B." she says.
This seems to give the class some kind of permission, and they're all waving at me and calling out "Bye Mrs. B!" as I leave. I worry that Mrs. K hates this - it's a disruption. But it's also hard to ignore cute waving first graders. I hug Ellie quickly and tell her goodbye. And then - crazily, because I really shouldn't do this - I blow all the kids a kiss before I walk out the door.
I make it almost all the way home before I realize I'm crying.
"I made it," is what Leo says at the end of the book. It is the first sentence he ever speaks. By the time he says it, he's also reading, writing his name in cursive with extra flourishes, and eating (fruit - as tigers love grapes in this fictional universe) neatly.
"I made it," Leo says. It's what I hope - one day - L. will say too.
In the meantime, part of me wants to bring her books and read to her - in English and Spanish - every single day.
I can't. It's not my job. But I want to.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-17 12:40 pm (UTC)I'm also not terribly impressed at the reading program you've loosely described here. Is there no guided reading for the kids? Is it all read a book, take a comprehension-level test, read another book, mostly independently? No wonder this kid is struggling, if so.
Kudos to you for realizing this child needs more than that, and for offering it to her.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-17 01:19 pm (UTC)The teacher also reads aloud to the kids every day from an age-appropriate chapter book. At first it was Junie B. Jones, which El loved. Now it's Magic Treehouse books, which Ellie isn't as crazy about.
I have mixed feelings about Accelerated Reader (the program described above that I help kids with.) On the plus side, the kids get to choose their own books on their level. This ideally ensures that they're a)exposed to books that interest them and b)are reading books on the appropriate level, neither too easy nor too hard. On the negative side, for homework each child is expected to read his/her AR book. As I described, this is problematic for a lot of kids without support at home. They also read AR books in the classroom, but I don't think that's guided reading either, just independent. I'm afraid this makes reading a frustrating experience for kids who aren't getting it.
(However, L (the student above) does have a reading interventions time where aides and teachers work with her and other lower students on basic reading skills. That's what Mrs. K alluded to. I just think L needs more/different help than that. But I think interventions might be happening while the other kids are reading independently in the classroom. And I say this about the interventions to you, not to school personnel. O:-) )
Another issue with AR for me personally was that for the longest time, Daniel hated reading. I had a fundamental ideological problem with setting the timer and forcing my kid to read for twenty minutes...so I didn't do it. Reading around him, talking to him about what I was reading, reading to him...all that I did happily. But I wouldn't force him to read as part of his homework, and while his third grade teacher didn't confront me directly on it, I knew she wanted me to take a more proactive role and was less-than-thrilled when I didn't.
(But now he loves reading. I'm sure we both think that makes us right. :-D)
Mrs. K... Mrs. K is probably in her late-twenties. She is pregnant and teaching full time right now. She is strict, which is hard for Ellie, but she's competent and mostly-fair. I think she's prone to being tough on the kids and maybe not picking up on nuances of curriculum theory...but there are worse things, and I think getting lost in the shades of gray is one thing that made me a terrible teacher. :-) So I both admire and disagree with her in roughly equal measure. And I have a lot of compassion for people teaching throughout pregnancy - I did it, and it was tough. (Of course, my AP would never fix my AC and I was teaching IN FLORIDA, but, umm, I digress.)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-17 01:56 pm (UTC)She needs help with decoding, because it sounds like she's not yet doing that, but she also needs to interact with the books she reads and connect them to her own life. You're not in a position to help with the decoding very much, but you ARE in a position to ask her those higher-level questions and get her connecting to her book.
As an aside, if guided reading in your district is basal readers and worksheets, then your district is operating about twenty years behind educational theory. It sounds like L is already slipping into a completely-unnecessary crack caused by adherence to ineffective teaching methods.