But if we can’t be good at all things, we can surely be good at some things, right?
By George Valadie
I don’t know how it’s possible, but it won’t be long before schools will arrive at report-card time.
There are quarter versions and six-weeks versions, not to mention the weekly sort or possibly the daily kind you can now see, though you may not want to. I didn’t.
There aren’t many handwritten ones anymore, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Having done them, it felt like a chore. But having received a slew of those click-a-box computer-generated phrases about our kids, I miss the insight that comes with original thought.
Though there’s a risk. When I was a young high-school teacher, we were required to send “progress reports” halfway through each grading period. Student name—teacher name—current grade, and a comment. We weren’t asked to write a thesis but something. One of our veteran teachers found herself commenting on the less-than-stellar progress of a child of a former student. “Genetics!” is all she wrote. It may have said it all.
As a teacher, then principal, and now in the role of superintendent, I have had and continue to have a lifelong running battle with these things. The pros and the cons—and there are plenty of both.
What do these numbers and letters really mean? What do they measure? Is Mrs. Jones doing hers the same way as Mrs. Smith? Are they supposed to? And if you’re a mom or dad, what do they really tell us about our children?
Eons ago, when I was a student in Catholic grade school, the tradition was for our pastor to come by and hand them out. I was lucky—mine were usually good, so it’s not that I worried all that much, but I think back now and again to my friends who may not have found school as much fun as I did.
And those were the days before teachers knew of ADD, dyslexia, or the learning disabilities kids had to battle while trying to master grammar and geography facts about places our brains couldn’t even imagine. Thankfully, we now know more than we did then.
Before technology took over, I experienced an up-close and personal appreciation of what my pastor’s task had been when I stepped into my first principal’s role at that same school. Most schools, including ours, had moved away from Father dropping by.
But I came face-to-face with those memories when one of our second-grade teachers asked if I would come into her class and hand out her report cards.
Sounded like fun.
The first little girl’s was awesome. “Way to go, this is tremendous!” I exclaimed. But it was no sooner out of my mouth than I remembered I had 24 more to go. I better tone it down, I’m gonna need a lot more compliments. How many synonyms for “awesome” do I actually know? You want it to be special, right?
And then the inevitable happened—I held one that wasn’t awesome. Wasn’t even good. It was in fact—terrible. And if these kids were all as aware as we had been, even in second grade, they all knew who the star students were and who were not.
So, I couldn’t lie. Nor could I call them out—not in front of everyone. What would that accomplish?
These are the little ones who could barely stay in their seats, much less master the standards. The last thing they needed from their principal was a monster dose of “you should do better” that would only confirm what classmates were thinking and what they likely were already thinking about themselves.
I wish I could tell you I was brilliant, but honestly, I have no memory of what I said to the few who were struggling. I did the best I could while watching hopeful faces inevitably turn sad when they saw the grades they had earned.
All report cards had been handed out when, before I left, I was hit with a last-minute stroke of genius.
“Some of us are good at math,” I said. “And some of us are good at reading. Right?
“God made all of us, but He made all of us different. He must think the world is better that way, and God’s pretty smart, right?” I was on a roll.
“But,” and I paused for dramatic effect (like a second-grader appreciated such), “there is one thing that ALL of us CAN DO.
“On everyone’s report card, you have a grade in conduct and another in effort. No matter what else you are good at or not so good at, we can all improve in effort. Right?
“So, when I come back next time, I want to everyone to show me your improved grade in effort. What do you say? Can we do that?”
“Yes sir, we can!!!” they chimed in together. Enthusiastically. Energetically. The way second-graders respond to most everything in life.
And I walked out the door, pretty proud of myself for having offered praise for the successful and hope for the not-so-much. They CAN ALL DO that, right?
Fast forward six weeks and I was back. Same room, same kids, same need to emphasize the positive.
“OK, do y’all remember what we talked about last time?” Lots of heads nodding.
“Do y’all remember how we talked about some kids being good at math and others at reading? But that we could all be good at effort? Who remembers that?”
More heads nodding.
And then, from wherever enlightenment comes, I felt compelled to ask. “How many know what ‘effort’ means?”
None. Nada. Not a single child.
What is this man talking about?!
My grade: F. And it should have been lower.
I’m glad Father wasn’t there to see that one.
Dear God—Keep us ever mindful that children—theirs, ours, yours—are all a “work in progress.” Please send patience. And please have patience … because we are, too. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”