When Giving Is All We Have
Failures in the classroom do not always result in finishing successfully. Sometimes failure is a gift we receive and we open the gift over the years. A student brought me a gift of learning. Before the semester began I received an accommodation report from Disability Resource Services. I looked over all of the accommodations, and made all of the changes available to the student. For this story I named the student Alice.
On the first day of class I met Alice, and explained in private that I accommodated all of her requests. She smiled and seemed very pleased with class. She had me document on her notebook exactly what homework she had for the next class meeting. The homework demand on the first day included reading the syllabus, and filling out some forms.
Alice returned to the next class with all of her assignments complete. Proudly she showed me her work. She showed me her notes on the first chapter. All twenty pages of notes. She flipped through her colorful notes. She showed the students sitting next to her. Alice beamed. Again, at the end of class, Alice made sure we met and I documented her homework assignments. This time her homework included a short (five minute) self-quiz. I showed Alice (again) where to do the self-quiz, on Canvas, and how it was a "pass/fail" assignment. I explained the directions, and how the quiz only helped her discover more about herself. Not to worry, she said she understood, and she had all weekend to do the self-quiz.
Monday, I arrived to class fifteen minutes before the start time, and I found Alice sitting at the door in tears. I asked her what was wrong, but Alice, overwhelmed with frustration and shame, couldn't speak, and wept. She could only say, "I tried." I consoled her as much as possible. I brought her into class, and helped her to her seat. She saw her friends, and warmed up. She was less active than the previous week, and sat sullen most of the period. When class ended Alice's mother came into the room. She introduced herself, and we chatted as Alice quickly packed up her backpack. "Mom! I wanted you to wait in the car!" Alice pleaded. Alice's mom apologized, but said she wanted to speak with me to see how the class went. Alice insisted that her mom went to the car. "You can't do this. You can't talk to him. This is mine. Let me do this." Before Alice left I made sure she understood the homework. She did, and she gave me a hug. She loved class.
Wednesday we met and Alice came prepared. This time no tears. Again, at the end of class, we went over her homework. It included a chapter short test on Canvas, and a second self-quiz to discover her personality type. She could take as long as she wanted, as per her accommodations, but it wasn't difficult.
Monday, Alice met me at the classroom door with her mother. Alice stood disheveled, and ruddy, with swollen eyes, and a tired face. I put down my backpack, and asked what happened. Alice slowly looked up at me. She struggled out, "I tried."
"I'm sure you did," I replied. "And you received seven out of ten on your test, which is great for the first one."
Alice's mother interjected. "She was up all weekend. Alice hasn't slept."
"Why not? You didn't need to spend the whole weekend on the test."
"She did the test Friday. It was the self-quiz," explained Alice's mother.
"I looked them up in the book," Alice sighed. "I tried. I couldn't find the answers."
"Oh."
"She spent all weekend, without sleep, looking up the answers."
I had to explain that there were no right or wrong answers for the self-quiz. The self-quiz was about the self, about Alice's personality. If she finished the quiz, she would discover something about herself. But Alice didn't understand why there were no right answers. Finally, I asked Alice the unaskable question.
"Alice? Can you tell me your disability?"
Alice hesitated. I waited.
"You can tell him," Mother said.
"No," Alice concluded. "I can do this. I am in college now. I am a student just like everyone else. I can do it if they can do it."
This repeated for a few weeks. Finally, Alice informed me she was born with Mosaic Down syndrome. I have a relative with Down syndrome (DS). Usually there are visible signs for DS such as a flattened face, especially the bridge of the nose, almond-shaped eyes that slant up, a short neck and small ears. Yet, Alice didn't display any of these signs. But she did experience moderate to low intellectual disability. She had trouble in expressive language, executive functioning, and verbal processing. She wanted right and wrong answers, and many of the concepts in the course were not so. Alice's ability to perform important functional activities that support or enable participation in the academic and related social aspects of the course would be all but impossible. Her disability would prohibit her from understanding school-related materials appropriately, the ability to manage self-care and personal needs, and request assistance when needed. I was not knowledgeable in how to work with Alice's needs. For me to learn how to work with the course material and accommodate what Alice really needed went beyond making sure she had a note-taker, or giving her more time on a test, or alternative seating. I would need to read up on how to teach some of my course competencies differently. Would Alice be patient and stick with me as I tried to learn how to teach her?
Alice remained in the class another month. She was patient with me, and I learned how to alter my teaching for DS students. Even though Alice was not patient with herself, and she dropped the course, we met each week after she left the course for me to find ways to work with a DS student. Alice did not complete the course, but she gave me a gift in the process.
One river gives
Its journey to the next.
We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.
We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.
We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—
Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.
Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:
Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.
You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me
What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made
Something greater from the difference.
On the first day of class I met Alice, and explained in private that I accommodated all of her requests. She smiled and seemed very pleased with class. She had me document on her notebook exactly what homework she had for the next class meeting. The homework demand on the first day included reading the syllabus, and filling out some forms.
Alice returned to the next class with all of her assignments complete. Proudly she showed me her work. She showed me her notes on the first chapter. All twenty pages of notes. She flipped through her colorful notes. She showed the students sitting next to her. Alice beamed. Again, at the end of class, Alice made sure we met and I documented her homework assignments. This time her homework included a short (five minute) self-quiz. I showed Alice (again) where to do the self-quiz, on Canvas, and how it was a "pass/fail" assignment. I explained the directions, and how the quiz only helped her discover more about herself. Not to worry, she said she understood, and she had all weekend to do the self-quiz.
Monday, I arrived to class fifteen minutes before the start time, and I found Alice sitting at the door in tears. I asked her what was wrong, but Alice, overwhelmed with frustration and shame, couldn't speak, and wept. She could only say, "I tried." I consoled her as much as possible. I brought her into class, and helped her to her seat. She saw her friends, and warmed up. She was less active than the previous week, and sat sullen most of the period. When class ended Alice's mother came into the room. She introduced herself, and we chatted as Alice quickly packed up her backpack. "Mom! I wanted you to wait in the car!" Alice pleaded. Alice's mom apologized, but said she wanted to speak with me to see how the class went. Alice insisted that her mom went to the car. "You can't do this. You can't talk to him. This is mine. Let me do this." Before Alice left I made sure she understood the homework. She did, and she gave me a hug. She loved class.
Wednesday we met and Alice came prepared. This time no tears. Again, at the end of class, we went over her homework. It included a chapter short test on Canvas, and a second self-quiz to discover her personality type. She could take as long as she wanted, as per her accommodations, but it wasn't difficult.
Monday, Alice met me at the classroom door with her mother. Alice stood disheveled, and ruddy, with swollen eyes, and a tired face. I put down my backpack, and asked what happened. Alice slowly looked up at me. She struggled out, "I tried."
"I'm sure you did," I replied. "And you received seven out of ten on your test, which is great for the first one."
Alice's mother interjected. "She was up all weekend. Alice hasn't slept."
"Why not? You didn't need to spend the whole weekend on the test."
"She did the test Friday. It was the self-quiz," explained Alice's mother.
"I looked them up in the book," Alice sighed. "I tried. I couldn't find the answers."
"Oh."
"She spent all weekend, without sleep, looking up the answers."
I had to explain that there were no right or wrong answers for the self-quiz. The self-quiz was about the self, about Alice's personality. If she finished the quiz, she would discover something about herself. But Alice didn't understand why there were no right answers. Finally, I asked Alice the unaskable question.
"Alice? Can you tell me your disability?"
Alice hesitated. I waited.
"You can tell him," Mother said.
"No," Alice concluded. "I can do this. I am in college now. I am a student just like everyone else. I can do it if they can do it."
This repeated for a few weeks. Finally, Alice informed me she was born with Mosaic Down syndrome. I have a relative with Down syndrome (DS). Usually there are visible signs for DS such as a flattened face, especially the bridge of the nose, almond-shaped eyes that slant up, a short neck and small ears. Yet, Alice didn't display any of these signs. But she did experience moderate to low intellectual disability. She had trouble in expressive language, executive functioning, and verbal processing. She wanted right and wrong answers, and many of the concepts in the course were not so. Alice's ability to perform important functional activities that support or enable participation in the academic and related social aspects of the course would be all but impossible. Her disability would prohibit her from understanding school-related materials appropriately, the ability to manage self-care and personal needs, and request assistance when needed. I was not knowledgeable in how to work with Alice's needs. For me to learn how to work with the course material and accommodate what Alice really needed went beyond making sure she had a note-taker, or giving her more time on a test, or alternative seating. I would need to read up on how to teach some of my course competencies differently. Would Alice be patient and stick with me as I tried to learn how to teach her?
Alice remained in the class another month. She was patient with me, and I learned how to alter my teaching for DS students. Even though Alice was not patient with herself, and she dropped the course, we met each week after she left the course for me to find ways to work with a DS student. Alice did not complete the course, but she gave me a gift in the process.
One river gives
Its journey to the next.
We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.
We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.
We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—
Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.
Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:
Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.
You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me
What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made
Something greater from the difference.
When Giving Is All We HaveAlberto Ríos
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