Limited Language

Ali is a pint-sized pain in the ass. But I like him anyway.

Ali is Chaldean, trying to fit in to a primarily Black school, speaking very limited English, unless you count curse words. But what he lacks in written and oral communication, he makes up for in physical aggression. He plays too rough, swears like a sailor, has been in several fights and has been suspended numerous times.

So it's not hard for me to find fault with Ali; he's usually guilty of something. But he's got these big puppy dog eyes, and this crazy mop of black hair; he really does kind of grow on you, despite your immense frustration with the boy.

Many of his academic frustrations might be remedied by giving him a full-time interpreter & tutor to help him bridge the language gap until he becomes more proficient in the English language. Maybe then he could channel his energies into work he understands and knows how to do. Unfortunately, what Ali does get is inconsistent and limited ELL (English Language Learner) services for about 45 minutes a day, twice a week-maybe.

He's frustrated. I'm frustrated. And so it goes. So I try to give Ali some responsibilities in the class, hoping it will help keep him out of trouble, if only for a while. One week I made him the boy’s bathroom monitor, and he was overjoyed with the task.

One day, the class was in the hallway, lined up for their afternoon bathroom break. Ali stood in doorway, ushering boys in and out, when he said the following: "Hey, whassup, My Digga?"

Almost immediately, there was an outcry from the other students who were within earshot. Because of course, with Ali’s accent, what he said sounded very much like he was headed for another suspension.

"Ms. Tienda!” they cried. “Ali said the n-word!"

Wait a minute...what?! I was there. I heard his tone; his voice was casual and friendly. And I think I heard his words. It sounded like...but wait...what?! What just happened here?! Quick—mentally rewind the last few seconds—WTF? was all I could think before I had to react.

“Ali, tell me what you just said,” I asked.

Ali, who was visibly confused, looked at me pleadingly with those big eyes and just kept shaking his head no.

So the other kids answered for him: “He said the n-word!”

"Not you,” I growled to the other students, desperately trying to maintain control in the hallway, "Ali, tell me what you said."

With desperation in his voice, Ali yelled, “No, Ms. Tienda! I no say the n-word! I say ‘Hi, Digga.’”

“You said hi to someone? Who was it?” I ask, knowing that no one named ‘Digga’ is on my class roster.

“Digga. My Digga,” Ali responded, pointing into the boy’s restroom. “I say hi to My Digga,” he said again, indicating one of the boys now emerging into the hallway.

“Him, Ms. Tienda. He 'My Digga.' That him name,” Ali explained.

We all looked around to see who this ‘Digga’ could be. Grrr…I recognize him as a trouble-maker from another fourth-grade class.

“That LaRon! He from Ms. H class!” someone added. Mmm-hmph… I know who LaRon is.

“Yeah," Ali agreed. "He ‘My Digga’.” Ali again pointed to LaRon.

Meanwhile LaRon just kind of lingered, with a malicious smirk I just wanted to slap off his face. “Get back to class, LaRon,” I snarled at him.

I bent down to Ali’s level. “LaRon told you his name was ‘My Digga’?”

“Yes, Ms. Tienda. I say, ‘Whassup, My Digga.’”

Now Ali had established himself as a trouble-maker in his own right. Ali knows very well what the n-word is; he’s used it before in a negative context and suffered negative consequences because of it. So for someone devious like LaRon, this makes a boy like Ali—who has both a bad reputation and limited language—a prime target to set up.

And there’s the rub.

How do you tell a fourth grader, "Look, don’t trust LaRon. He’s f*ing with you"--but not in those words?

Sigh…

As a teacher, I'm limited in my language too.

I'm Awkward and I Know It

When asked to chaperone the upper elementary dance a few weeks ago, I readily agreed. It was only an hour commitment after school in the gym, and I was going to be in the building anyway. Why not? I thought. We’ve had a few dances this year. They’re popular fundraisers; the kids look forward to them; and they motivate students to behave better so that they can attend.

But this was unlike any school dance I ever attended.

By the time I got to the dance, the DJ had started. The gym itself was throbbing, pulsing with the energy of the music and the kids. I opened the gym doors, and the thump-thump-thump of the driving bass quite literally seemed to be blowing my hair back. I had no idea what song was playing, but the kids were all into it.

The DJ yelled, “Can I hear the 4th Graders in the house?!” Kids shrieked and screamed in response. “Can I hear the 5th Graders in the house?!” he beckoned, soliciting more feverish cheers.

See, he knew he was playing for kids in an elementary school. So why then, Mr. DJ, did your next song include “Mother F**er” at least four times? And that, according to another chaperone, was the ‘cleaned-up’ version. I looked around, and every kid in the gym was mouthing the words, M-F and all.

By the time he yelled for the 6th graders in the house, the students had been worked up into a frenzy, which was carried over into their dancing.

I noticed that they danced in a huddle though. Other than a few outliers here and there doing their own thing, the majority of the students were standing in a clustered mass, jumping up and down to the rhythm, while the students (usually girls) in the center of the crowd danced.

But this was unlike any dancing I ever did.

One girl would approach another girl, within inches of her, then she’d move and gyrate aggressively with her whole body—arms, legs, hips, face—then she’d back off, like a boxer to his corner. Meanwhile, the crowd of kids whooped and hollered. Now the second girl would become the aggressor. She’d walk up to the first girl, shake her head no, as if to say, ‘That’s not how you do it—watch me’—and then she’d dance her comeback dance. Afterwards, girl #2 would retreat back to her corner, amidst more raucous cheering, awaiting the next challenge.

And so it went. Some challenges went several rounds, each girl getting in the other’s face; some even ended with a shove to their opponent, gaining the momentum they needed to back away and leave an exclamation point in their wake. The dancing became more and more frenetic, propelled on by the boom-ba-doom-boom boom-ba-doom-boom bass (superbass).

Then the Curly Shuffle came on.

Hey, I recognize this one, I thought. I can do this. I’ll be the cool teacher who can dance. That was the intention anyway. I did ok; I kept up. The Curly Shuffle was at my threshold of dance capacity. It’s just too bad I didn’t stop there.

Still trying to be the cool teacher, some of the girls in my class tried to Teach Me How To Dougie. That didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped. I tried, thought I was doing ok, but then I asked for feedback. “How am I doing?” I asked, only to have the girls break into peals of laughter.

“You look like you’re hitting people!” they responded.

It was one of those “What I think I look like” vs. “What I actually look like” moments. In my mind, I was doing just fine. In reality, however, I was woefully underperforming. Those kids put my gracelss moves to shame.

Wobble? C’mon—I can do the regular Hustle, therefore I can do the Big Girl Hustle, right? Nope…should’ve stopped that train wreck sooner that I did.

Wutang? Nope…couldn’t get myself back off the floor without the help of some of the kids.

Stanky Leg? Nope…should’ve left that one alone too.

Turbo? Nope…never should’ve attempted this disaster in the making. I’m just grateful I didn’t kick anybody other than myself.

In a sea of sheer, raw talent, I was quickly sinking into lameness with my inability to dance with any refinement or rhythm whatsoever.

This Moment 4 Life was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. But it was very telling in that now I have to admit I’m old and more out of touch than I ever realized. Go ahead; LYFAO at my expense.

Sigh…I still have to finish out the school year with these kids.