Backpacks Full of Burden: The Secret Lives of Struggling Students

By Chris Bowen

I have learned a lot from the children in my classrooms over the years. It has not been an even trade. I hone my craft and find new and engaging ways to reach as many as possible, but every year I walk away with more than I gave. Children come from varied worlds, homes, and conditions that greatly affect their ability, motivation, and emotional state. Sometimes the hurdles a teacher must find a way around are immense. And every day dedicated teachers look for any and all ways to defy the odds that weigh some students down. Here are some of my moments over the years. I thank them all for gracing my classrooms. Happy Reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Bowen
• Release date: Jun 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463864876

Chris Bowen

Chris Bowen has been the Teacher of the Year for his high school, for his school district, and was most recently honored as Teacher of the Year for Los Angeles County. Los Angeles County currently employs over 80,000 teachers. His most important key to success with children is building that personal relationship with each child. There is a huge difference between being tough and being strong. Anybody can be tough with a nine-year-old, but it takes the strength of patience, empathy, and honesty to build the more effective, lasting relationship.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - BACKPACKS FULL OF BURDEN

I caught him. I felt like some character from a mediocre cop show. I had sleuthed it out. But that feeling stayed with me for an instant. Less than an instant, if that’s possible. The feeling that immediately took its place and stayed with me for quite some time was burden. Knowing something you didn’t want to know. And at the same time understanding that you sort of knew it all along anyway. There is sometimes a great chasm between what you think and what you know. But when the two collide, that can make for an unnerving experience.

It started by chance. First period. I simply picked up his back pack to move it a little to the left, creating a more maneuverable path through the room. Right away, I could tell the back pack was empty. I had purchased enough back packs over the years for my girls to remember the feel of an empty one. An overpriced bag of air, really. Over time, it becomes the life force of a child’s school year. Homework. Books. Communications. Announcements. The girls got older and the back packs became intricate style statements that had to be fashionable, but not so much as to overpower the outfits they had chosen. This was explained to me on more than one occasion, but years later it still doesn’t quite make sense to the mind of a middle-aged man. I just accepted the explanations and made a few budget concessions.

So, this first period back pack? Empty. It almost flew out of my hand as I leaned down with a dead lift mentality to heave what is often a very heavy object off the floor. And this one was still just an over-priced bag of air. No books. No homework. No fashion statements. Just air. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask.

A messy back pack with crumpled papers and announcements from a previous school year can be a sign of laziness. A lack of care or respect. That intrinsic value not yet discovered. A quirky badge of honor for the adolescent male putting a lot of care into proving that he doesn’t care. But an empty back pack? Totally barren? That’s not a statement. That’s a secret. And there is a balancing act that goes with allowing a child to keep the dignity they have assigned to their secret while still helping them out.

I immediately and foolishly make middle class assumptions about an empty back pack. School supplies, right? Okay. This wouldn’t be so difficult. School supplies are easy to pull together. Giving them to him without trading them for his secret would be a little more complicated, but still very doable. In my head, I got very James Bond about it all. The back pack was a common style. I could easily buy the same back pack, fill it with supplies, and somehow make the switch without being found out. I had seen it in the movies. He might be okay with me holding his secret. I’ve held a lot of secrets this way over the years. Most are still with me. And I will take them all with me when I retire. Never to be spoken. I’ll keep your secret. You keep your dignity. We’re all good.

A few days later though, I see him after school walking home and his back pack is definitely not empty. It clearly has a little weight to it now. I’m immediately relieved. It’s a campus full of decent folks. Someone must have beat me to it. No matter. Another need will come along soon enough.

But the next day, there it is. That obviously empty back pack. His final class of the day is just a few doors down from me. Sure enough, I see that he’s leaving with a full load. The next morning. Empty again. Its emptiness is not as noticeable as before. The bag has held items and has a broken in sort of look to it. If you don’t pick it up, you might not catch it. But I do. The pattern goes on for about a week.

And then? Then I know. No evidence. I just really know. I wander out to the quad at lunch. There he is. Right where I thought he might be. The busier lunch tables. He’s good. It’s a skill he has perfected. He goes unseen, undetected, as he casually grabs food off the tables and drops it into his open, empty back pack. He goes for fruit, mostly. Uneaten fruit gets left behind quite a bit. Occasionally, he finds the unopened granola bar or a yogurt. He doesn’t need a highlighter or a ruler. The boy needs a meal. The back pack comes to school empty, so he can fill it with food he finds on the tables.

No doubt it is not the only empty back pack at my school. Not the only empty belly either. Go ahead. Open one up. Pick one. Any one. At first, they seem pretty light weight. Very little in the way of school supplies. But, look closer. In those empty spaces you start to see anxiety. Instability. Eviction. Possible abuse. Addiction. The more you look, the more you realize just how full that back pack is when they first walk into the room. Seems really difficult to find a place to cram your lesson on fractions or how to write a clear thesis. And as long as that back pack stays full, your lesson is never going to make it inside. You may not ever have to witness that sort of poverty from the perspective of a child trying to learn, but I see it. I recognize it every time I open one of these backpacks full of burden.

Chapter 2 - A LOT OF EFFORT GOES INTO LOOKING STUPID

Mr. Bowen! There she is. Just a few yards away. Beaming smile. Ripe with youth and hope. I can remember when my own smile carried on its edges the message of youth and hope. These days, when it smirks back at me in the mirror, it seems to suggest something closer to grit and compromise. Not ashamed of either, but when youth and hope and optimism beam out at you from a young person, you tend to miss your old supply.

A small part of their optimism during these little public meetings is wrapped around the notion that I possess instant and total recall and their name will roll right off my tongue. My memories are more like dusty boxes piled in a dim attic. It’s in there, treasured even, but just harder to find. Luckily, her name is right on top. Easy access. No fumbling around. No need to ask or disappoint.

Hi Ashely. So good to see you. How have you been? Most of these conversations take on a primitive cocktail party exchange. Accomplishments and goals. Family and friends. I am somewhat vested in these conversations. At one time, I was their teacher. I was a part of their process. You secretly want to know if you had any impact. The education road is long, and I know I am only a brief stop along the way, but you still can’t help taking great pride in their success and mourn for their failures.

I remember Ashley because she was beginning a very dark year. She was already a child that squirmed in her seat and chattered at the worst moments in class. That summer her father had passed, and she started seventh grade with great loss, and even greater anger. School was no longer important. Even a good bluff to keep up appearances wasn’t going to happen. It was simply a time to be angry; an attempt to make meaning where no meaning could be found.

That was years ago. She is older now. Same face, different frame. And she seems lighter, carrying fewer demons these days. She recalls the silliness of her time in middle school.

I remember, she starts in, I remember that you sat me next to Mary Jane and we would constantly talk and even pass notes. And then, anytime you changed the seating chart, you still had me sitting next to Mary Jane. Every time. She laughs a little. And we just kept right on talking in class. Mr. Bowen, you would get so annoyed and we thought you were just so dumb not to move us. I laugh at my own stupidity.

Seventh grade was your worst year, huh? I turn the moment a bit somber. It catches her off guard. She looks down.

Yeah. My dad had died. I was such a mess.

You still friends with Mary Jane?

Oh yeah. We’re still really close. In fact, she talked me into joining band with her. In high school, we studied together all the time. She got me through A.P. chemistry.

You really needed a good friend that year, I say. She nods. And to think you found yourself sitting next to one all year long, I add. She pauses and gives me a quizzical look.

So, every time you let us sit together, you did it on purpose?

Sometimes a lot of thought goes into being this dumb, I say, smiling. An adult like me couldn’t be that friend. But I had faith in Mary Jane. She just stares at me for a while. Seems unsure of what to say. The conversation in the aisle of hair products at the local CVS has run its course. She looks down, taking in the new information. And then she hugs me. Now it’s my turn to be caught off guard. I clumsily hug back.

Thank you, she says. I smile and watch her walk away. I stand in the store and all of a sudden, my concern over which conditioner might give my aging hair more volume seems silly. I sigh and go to pay. Instantly, I am annoyed at the cashier for taking far too long. I am also frustrated with the lady who is bickering over an outdated coupon. I am not always the friendliest guy. Not always a good friend, to be honest with you. But luckily, I am good at spotting one. And sometimes, that is more than enough.

Chapter 3 - A MARCOS ATTITUDE

You know what you need this morning? Groggy-eyed, a boy more than likely suffering from the effects of a late-night gaming binge, nods. He still gets my reference. Let me hear you say it, I tell him.

I need a Marcos attitude. Kids chuckle, no one more than Marcos. It’s quite a feat, really. To have your brand name practically hijack the product name is pretty rare. Coke has done it. Coke, for years, was a synonym for any dark soda, with root beer being the only possible hold-out. Levi’s has pulled it off, too. Jeans and Levi’s were more or less synonyms for several decades that I can recall. And now --- in my class ---a good attitude and a Marco attitude are pretty much the same thing.

Marcos is ready to go at 7:45 each morning. Big smile, strong work ethic, great participation. When most of the kids have not yet shaken the slumber from their eyes, you can always count on Marcos to get things going. He is too much coffee without the jittery side effects.

Get yourself a Marcos attitude this morning. I must say it several times a week. And Marcos relishes the nod. Some mornings, it only serves to fuel him more. He’s one kid I’m not worried about. He’s got it together. Clearly, somebody at home has got his back. They make sure he is always on the right track. And so, it goes.

A few months into the school year, we are writing our Person of Greatness essay. The unit asks the kids to write about someone who is great and who they can align with the