My grad student (let’s call her Debbie. Not her real name. She'd punch me if she knew I called her Debbie) and I were asked to test kids in grades 3-5 at an elementary school that had mostly poor kids in it. Easily 50% of the kids left not being good readers; i.e., they were illiterate. In this field, they are called “struggling readers.” In an honest profession, they would be called “Make friends with a broom.”
The new principal--a fine, smart, tough women--wanted to use a remedial reading program that may be the most effective in the known universe—Corrective Reading, published by SRA/McGraw-Hill. You give the kids a quick (and reliable) placement test to determine the level at which they should begin.
Debbie and I had no idea how badly these kids could read. [I was new to this field. I mean, how hard is it to teach reading? Five basic skills. More on that when I feel like it.]
I’m testing in the school library. In comes this little Black kid. Real thin. Skin stretched so tight over his cheek bones. A beautiful little boy. Like an ebony carving. Wearing a Cub Scout uniform—blue with gold lettering. Frayed at cuffs and collar. But spotless and starched. His Momma loves him. Yes, she does. I could see him as my boy.
I say, “Howdy, Pal. [We shake hands.] This isn’t a test. It’s just to see HOW you read so we can get books that are right for you. Here. Read this. [paragraph in a testing book] Try not to make mistakes. Okay? Start whenever you want.”
So, he puts his index finger under the first word. I think, “Great. He knows how to do this!” And he starts.
“K…K…Ki…Kite (the word is Kit)…mmm mad (made) a bowat (boat). She mad the bowat of thin (tin). The noise (nose) of the bowat was vvv vvv very tin…”
He’s trying hard. His proud look—“Hey, I’m getting some nice attention. I’ll show this guy I can read.”—fades. He’s sweating now. He looks at me for help. I say, “You’re doing fine.” [I feel like I’m telling a guy with terminal cancer it will be fine. I feel like it’s MY fault. Like I’m bringing the hammer down on his fine little innocent soul.]
He finishes. Took him 3 minutes and he made at least 30 errors. Lower than low.
He says, “I’m stupid ain’t I.” I almost choke. [In a manly sort of way] My throat closed long ago. My eyes are swelling. This is my boy.
“No, you’re smart as a whip. I bet you know all kinds of things. You are one sharp kid.”
What’s the matter with me? I want to tell him I love him.
Me and Debbie test all the kids and make lists of students for the Corrective Reading groups. Debbie helps the principal order the materials and in a few weeks the kids are finally being taught right. They should make more than a year’s growth in reading every few months.
I don’t know what happened to Scout. He was in fifth grade and I tested him in April. They didn't do Corrective Reading in middle school, where he's headed in two months.
I found out that his teachers—like most in this county—come from the ed school where I work. They have no idea how to teach reading. But think they do. Not their fault. How can you tell your reading perfessers that they are frauds--that their "reading methods" not only don't work, they actually TEACH kids to be dyslexic and illiterate?
Steve Hoffelt knows.
Well...now you've gone and done it...made me cry and realize how lucky I have been to know you and even touch your heart a bit by tying your scout into the immorality of what we have done. You keep me going....your scout...and my scouts...keep me going. We are...WE ARE...the only hope they have...the only ones willing to stand at the pass and protect them...and teach them how to be soldiers, so they can defend themselves or stand as a member of our "we stand alone together" group. If you hadn't come along, much like Zig and Carnine, I would perhaps have died on the vine. Not now...not ever shall I waver to stand beside you and defend those who cannot speak or stand for themselves. Always grateful, Always a Partner....Stevo
Posted by: Steve Hoffelt | Wednesday, October 27, 2004 at 02:35 PM