In one of the fourth grade classes I assist daily, there is a boy named Achilles (not his real name, of course). Achilles is notorious in his class for being “unserious” about academics; for giggling too much when his classmates present something in front of class; and even for threatening the homeroom teacher. (At one point, there was a controversy over him secretly leaving a note that read “Die, teacher.” at that teacher’s desk.) To be honest, Achilles also has body odor issues, which doesn’t help my impression of him at all.
As an English Language Assistant in Madrid, I am often tasked with taking Achilles and other students out of the class in order to read English storybooks with them. Since these sessions are done in groups, their success depends on the cooperation of the students and my inner patience as an instructor.
Achilles actively tests my patience. He giggles too loudly when his groupmates read the parts of a given story I ask them to recite. When I ask all of them to play a verbal game related to the story, Achilles whines when a classmate beats him to the correct answer. When I deduct a point from him due to his bad behavior, he whines some more.
It is very difficult to like a student who does not really behave like a proper student.
And yet, whenever I go over to Achilles’ seat in class (the teacher put him at the back without a seat-mate) and observe him taking notes, I notice that he’s got impeccable handwriting. Most times he calls for me in class, it’s just to flash a devilish grin for no reason. Other times, though, it’s because he has a valid question for me about the activity at hand.
When I take the time to really observe Achilles in moments of quiet, I see a student who legitimately does try.
It was during one of those instances, I think, when I realized there was more to this mischievous boy than meets the eye. After taking the time to consult with his homeroom teacher, I found out that Achilles is a student transferee from a small mountain town in the Italian border where they only speak German. His parents, it seems, tend to turn a blind eye to his bad attitude (something I observed during their post-class discussions with the school administrators).
On top of those, it turns out that Achilles is on the autism spectrum – with the caveat being that “it is hard to tell when his condition ends and his bad behavior begins,” as his homeroom teacher elegantly puts it.
I couldn’t help but empathize with Achilles at that point. He clearly had potential, but whatever was going on at home was stopping it from being properly fostered. Also, children on the spectrum probably make more effort than the rest of us to try to “fit in” every day; that must be tiring and stressful.
And so, I started to approach Achilles’ table in order to help him more often, and used a softer tone with him than usual. Maybe I saw part of myself in him as well. One of the reasons I find teaching (even on an assistant’s level) so fulfilling is because I loved the thrill of discovery and learning when I was a boy, and it energizes me now to see that same spark in my students. When I see the consistency with which Achilles perseveres with his English and Science lessons, I feel the urge to help him and encourage his instincts.
Going forward, I think I’ll ask Achilles’ homeroom teacher if I could continue the action research plan I previously conducted in their class – except this time, I would tailor it to Achilles only. (The plan involves individually asking students the same question prompts for days in order to see if their grammar and comprehension improves.)
On a deeper level, I think it could also show him that there are mentors who are willing to make the extra effort for him, and that he is worthy of it.
Achilles has always been a little bit behind the rest of his classmates when it comes to English. Maybe workshopping this plan with him could be a great way for him to catch up with the rest of them. But on a deeper level, I think it could also show him that there are mentors who are willing to make the extra effort for him, and that he is worthy of it.
When Achilles gets the hang of basic conversation starters, I plan to “personalize” the questions more. Maybe if I frame them in a way that subtly validates his identity (e.g. “What is one thing that makes you smile after a long school day?” or “What do you wish teachers knew about kids your age?”), it could build our rapport in the long run. Whether or not it works, I know that I’m starting to see him more as a boy now, and not just a prankster.
