Are The Goals We Set for Our Struggling Learners Holding Them Back?

Dan is a 9th grade student who is into hockey, skateboarding, and horror flicks.  He has a handful of good friends, is crushing on a girl in his 3rd period math class, and can eat his body weight in cafeteria tater tots.  He also has a learning disability.  In grade 4 he was professionally assessed and diagnosed with ADHD.  His parents were told that because of limitations in his working memory, learning would be a challenge.

Dan's parents sat down with his teachers in elementary school who developed an Individualized Program Plan (IPP) to help support him in his learning.  With the help of aids, he was able to keep his head above water for the next few years, but things started going really sideways around grade 7.  He was failing classes and getting in trouble at school.  He stopped taking his ADHD meds, claiming they didn't help and that he "didn't need them and was stupid anyway, so what's the point."

As he entered high school, his IPP came along with him.  His four teachers in his four classes were given access to a digital version of the document and asked, without ever having met him, to craft some goals and expectations for this student.  They each read his background diligently and each of them make their level best attempt at writing some goals that are consistent with the background spelled out in the document and his grades history.  They write things like...

"Dan will self-advocate and identify instances where accessing accommodations will be of benefit."

"Dan will seek assistance from his classroom teachers and resource aids for help when encountering difficulties."

It is a Tuesday, and Dan has a science test.  He hasn't studied.  He hasn't handed in any of his homework from the unit.  He hasn't attended all of the classes in which the test material was covered.  He is anxious.  There is a knot in his stomach, and he can't keep his feet from wiggling.  He knows that he won't be able to focus on what the test will say, and he knows it would be easier if he moved to a quieter space.  He also knows that if he can hear the questions instead of reading them, that they'll make more sense.

But he also knows everyone in the room will look at him if he asks for anything.  He knows they'll think he's an idiot.  He knows they'll make fun of him later.  He knows that if he just sits there and says nothing, no one will look at him, no one will think badly of him, and no one will care that he doesn't understand any of what's on this test.

The teacher places the test in front of him and pauses for a moment.  He leans in and very quietly whispers,

"Dan, would you like to do this test in the resource room?"

Dan's heart is in his throat.  He can feel everyone staring at him.  His face flushes.

"No, I'm good... I-I'll be fine," he stammers.

The teacher lingers...

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine."

Dan guesses on almost every question.  He fails.  Again.

*****

It sounds pretty bleak, but if you're thinking this is a rare and particularly fabricated tale, I'll just say that I wish it were so.  Tragically, I can admit that I have played the role of teacher in that tale, and I have taught a great many "Dans."

We come with the very best of intentions, but the execution is all too often simply not meeting the real needs of our kids.  And tragically, too many teachers, administrators, and systems people are not being sufficiently critical of their practices to move this in another direction.

We talk a pretty lofty and idealistic game about how we're going to help kids grow into strong, resilient, self-reliant young adults.  We craft high-minded phrases like "will self-advocate and identify instances" and "will seek assistance" when we imagine how students will climb that responsibility ladder and pull themselves out of intellectual poverty.  Unfortunately, those "goals" are too often the reason for why they can't or don't.

Whether it's a learning disability, a rough home life, an empty belly, or a health problem, kids are bringing hosts of factors beyond their control to school.  We might want them to have "grit," and we might hope they'll all take responsibility for their learning, but our wants and hopes don't make these things happen by themselves any more than theirs do.

It's time for us to own up to the reality that kids are falling through the cracks and that we're contributing to that.  Yes, they have homes, and lives, and histories, and genes that also contribute.  But those facts do not absolve us from doing what we can to make meaningful strides in helping the marginalized and struggling learners in our charge.

When our first conversations with challenged learners start with "goals" that our students had no hand in creating and that ultimately distill down to "try harder" or "figure it out for me," then we've failed them before they've even walked into the building.  Telling kids the only way they'll get help is to come ask for it, when it's already painfully obvious they need the help, is irresponsible.  We have a responsibility as educators to avoid creating barriers that keep kids from getting the help they need.  Heaping the responsibility for learning exclusively on to these students isn't going to build their resiliency, agency, or sense of self-advocacy.  It will (and does) build their resentment, self-loathing, and disenfranchisement.  It is our responsibility to be the care givers and to try to meet them where they are in order to help them forward, rather than to expect them to come on their own.

I won't pretend to have all the solutions.  I'm struggling with this as well, but here are a few suggestions I can offer:

• Make a very distinct point of making a personal connection with your struggling learners.  It may take longer to whittle away their walls than those of your gregarious classroom all-stars, but keep working on them.  If you can build trust, make them feel safe, make them feel cared for, you might be able to get them to drop the armor long enough to learn how best to help and support them.


• Find a way to generate one-on-one conversations with those students away from the ears and eyes of their peers.  Create private and personalized codes or signals as necessary with them so as to minimize exposure of their vulnerabilities.


• Constantly reflect on what's working and what's not for these students.  Don't assume that the accommodations that they showed up with are still serving their needs.  Try different approaches if things aren't working.  Do they need a reader?  Text-to-speech? A peer mentor or study buddy?  A different kind of desk or chair?  A meal?  A kind ear?  Don't let it leave your radar.  It's hard; I get it.  Schedule yourself an IPP check in your calendar if you think it'll fall off your plate.


• Reflect on the process by which your school generates IPPs (or whatever your particular jurisdiction calls this type of document).  Are students and parents directly involved in the creation and maintenance of these documents?  If not, become an advocate for changing that.


• Talk with the rest of the folks that teach and work with these kids to find out what they're doing and learning about them, especially the resource teachers who are specifically trained in working with kids sporting learning disabilities.  Get off the island and collaborate.


• Reflect and be critical of your practice.  Yes, accountability is a thing, and we want kids to learn to be accountable.  But that is one goal among many, and for some kids, it might not be the most important goal at that moment.  Don't let "holding kids accountable for their learning" be your "moral" justification for not helping them to learn.  Dig deeper.  Figure them out.  Ask for help if you need it, and don't be afraid to admit that you don't know what to do.  Most days neither do I.  Let's keep trying together.

For more information and resources, Alberta Education has an Inclusive Education Library that is very helpful: http://www.learnalberta.ca/content/ieptLibrary/index.html

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