When I was a third-grade teacher, Malcolm was one of my favorite students. He loved school, worked hard in class and earned top grades. On the last day of the semester, Malcolm burst into tears just before he left the room. No amount of reassurance would console him. I guided him all the way to the bus, into the arms of his sister. She took over from there.
Malcolm’s reaction wasn’t a surprise. The same thing happened with a few kids every year as summer vacation approached. Due to factors beyond his family’s control, Malcolm’s home life was unpredictable. Coming to school provided him with a needed sense of continuity and consistency. He was safe in school, and I adored him. To leave that security for the summer was frightening.
Malcolm made me realize how much kids invested—socially and emotionally—in the time they spent in my classroom. For some of my students, school provided much-needed structure in their lives. For Malcolm—and many others—it was a second home.
The language of my classroom is part of what creates this sense of safety. Calling my class “our learning community” was the start. I also welcomed kids at the door every morning with a high-five, a hug or a handshake. Our first activity was always a “community circle” to bring everyone together and reinforce the message that we all belonged there.
You know how some classrooms look like the inside of a teacher’s supply store? Mine was comparatively barren. I wanted my students to decorate the room with their art, their work, pictures of themselves from home, anything that allowed them to feel like they belonged. Within a week, my walls were filled with the beautiful diversity of their identities and their lives.
My students all have homes and families, and I can never replace them. What I can do is encourage students to share as much of their reality as they choose. I get to know the students better, and honoring their experiences make them feel welcome and a part of our learning community.
Malcolm went into his summer, albeit reluctantly. On the first day of school the following year, he stopped by to see me, find out about the new family in my classroom and learn if anything had changed. He wanted to check out his old digs and reconnect with our relationship. As the bell rang, Malcolm turned to leave. Before he did, he told the first kids he saw waiting by the door, “Welcome home!”
Hiller is a mentor to first- and second-year teachers in Oregon and a member of the Teaching Tolerance Advisory Board.