Flea on a hot skillet

Last week, one of my students (I'll call her Sally because no one names their child Sally these days)...Sally was on an extended Spring Break vacation with her family. They traveled to Mexico and while she was gone, I didn't notice Sally's absence.

But upon her return this week, I noticed. Geez, did I notice.

Sally is a flea on a hot skillet. Medically speaking, she's been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, but that isn't an apt description. She's a young and lively flea on a very hot skillet.

Last week seemed easier, but I thought it was the "after spring break" relaxed phase. After three days with Sally, I've decided it wasn't relaxed last week, it was normal.

This week (all three days of it) have been anything but normal. It started on Monday. Sally came into the room in the morning, walked right up to my desk and asked, "What did I miss?" Before I could answer, she turned around to say hello to a classmate who'd just entered the room and within seconds, was conversing with yet another student standing by the door.

This was just the beginning. She flitted around the room all morning before class started, bouncing on her toes like a two-legged jack-in-the-box. Within seconds after giving instructions, her hand shot up. "But what if..." and it began, a series of questions that I'd either already addressed in my instructions or already answered for another student.

On Tuesday, during a work session, while the students independently worked on their projects, she blazed a trail to my desk at least 50 times in an hour. "I don't understand what you mean by..." to which I would explain myself again and she'd turn on her toe to head back to her seat, but never make it there. She'd turn around on her heel and be back at my desk, "But what if..."

It wasn't as if she didn't really understand the directions or the assignment or the project, rather she was trying to figure out how to do the least amount of work, put in the least amount of effort, or even, if she played her cards right, avoid the assignment altogether.

My teaching partner turned to me today, after conferencing with Sally over a math assignment, and growled, "She's going to drive me crazy!"

No shit.

Last week I started to really enjoy the group of students we have. I know, I should have "fallen in love" with them earlier as I did previous groups, but this group has been hard to love. I thought it had to do with the snobbery of the wealthy kids or the constant "I wants" from the middle class kids, but now I realize it was all because of Sally.

Without Sally they were a thoughtful, calm, and pleasing group. With Sally they're gossipy, irritated, and demanding. Could she really have this much power?

I watched her today with particular interest. She's out of her sit more than she's in it. And when she IS in it, it's not calmly. She squirms and dances as if tacks are on her seat. When she's out of her seat, she's in someone else's space and not quietly. She's talking and scheming, figuring out the social details she either missed out on last week or has found herself knee deep in this week.

"Tomorrow," I told my teaching partner, "I'm going to use a stopwatch and measure how many minutes she's out of her seat, how much she's in it, and how much of it she's silent."

"You'll be a busy woman," was her only reply.

If this weren't my last year of teaching, I'd probably find Sally amusing, but I've taught too many Sally's to find this behavior anything pleasing.

Once, I had a runner on the track team I coached. His name wasn't Dwayne, but I'll call him that. His ADHD was even more severe than Sally's. He was a magnificent runner. He ran the mile and two mile races and often won, but in order for him to perform up to his ability, I had to station other athletes all around the track, about every 100 meters or so. Their job was simply to "remind" Dwayne that he was in a race because, and you could see it happen, he'd totally lose focus, slow down, and do things like wave to a cute girl, watch the shot putters off to the side, or my favorite, actually stop in the middle of the race and try to talk with the other race participants.

With Dwayne I had a lot more patience than I do with Sally. He wasn't in my classroom. He was on the track running gracefully and with incredible speed. I didn't have to answer any of his questions because there was so much happening during any given practice or competition, he was always distracted by something or someone.

Not the case with Sally. We're together almost 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. She's everywhere, too. I turn around, and there she is with yet another question or inappropriate comment. She raises her hand to participate in class discussions and nine times out of ten, she's completely forgotten the topic and prattles on simply to hear her own voice or to "impress" her classmates.

Except for last week. Last week there was a silence I couldn't explain. Last week there wasn't a buzz of activity, motion without a purpose. Last week we all seemed to be on the same page and everyone seemed joyous and content.

The hardest part about teaching Sally is that I can't say any of this to her. "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week, we got a whole lot done." Or "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week there wasn't one single social crisis."

Instead, I muster up all my patience and do the best I can to answer her questions, redirect her energy, and turn down the flame on that hot, hot skillet.

Perhaps that's why I'm so tired tonight.