I Saw Grit Today
I saw grit today, and I was reminded how beautiful, precious, and inspiring it can be.
We have a second grader at our school who was born with a "stub" arm, and he wears a prosthetic arm. I wrote about this boy in a previous post. Please see the original post here. It's been more than two years since this story started, but today, and with permission from his father, this young man's story continues.
While part of my regular rounds in the school, I saw the boy and his class. He raised his arm to show me that his prosthetic arm was broken. The hand was twisted around backwards. I took the boy to the office and asked our school secretary to call his parents to see what we could do. Occassionally the arm has an issue, but we almost never have to do anything. In fact, I'd say the arm is "invisible" at school. We really don't think about it, and it isn't even a topic of conversation. Without missing a beat, our secretary, who was already dealing with a very busy office, smiled and took over. I love the close relationship our entire office staff has with our students. Both of our secretaries are like surrogate mothers for our students. It makes a difference.
I continued my rounds only to return to the office to see the boy and his father huddled in the corner. They were talking to each other in hushed tones. Dad talked to me in private that he needed to take the prosthetic arm to be repaired and that his son was embarrassed to return to class without the arm. This was a turning point for his son. The boy needed to return to class without his arm to learn that he is more than his prosthetic arm. And yet, the child is more self-conscious than he was in kindergarten. (I will never forget his first week of school in kindergarten when he would take his arm off and spin it around and above his head!) He did not want to go to class. He wanted to go with his father.
I was taken aback. How could this boy feel embarrassed? We've been through so much. Not returning to class would be like giving up on all that we have worked on at school. I was sad for him and wanted to help. Dad asked me to talk with his son. The mutual trust and respect we build with our families is like a precious jewel, and I was privileged to even be asked to talk with his son.
I smiled, held the boy's hand, pulled him close, and whispered, "Why do you look so sad? We really need you to go to class."
A small tear formed in his eye, as he shook his head, no.
"Buddy, it's going to be OK. Are you worried someone will say something mean about your arm? I promise, nobody will say anything mean. In fact, I will talk to the class so you feel comfortable."
Dad came in and held his son on his lap. He reiterated support for his son. He reminded his son how proud he and his wife were of all he does and who he is. Dad, in a beautiful way, told his son how much he loved him. His son asked why he couldn't go with his dad to get the arm repaired.
Here's where telepathy took over. I was really hoping Dad would agree with me how important it was going to be to help his son believe in himself so much that he could overcome a broken prosthetic arm. Dad was remarkable. He politely and calmly explained that his son had learning to do and that he would eventually need to learn to deal with a broken prosthetic arm. It was going to happen in the future, and now was the best time to learn. Now was the time to not give up. He reminded his son that our school had always been supportive and understanding, and the teachers would make sure everything was OK.
His son would not relent. He really wanted to go with his father. Despite even more small tears, we weren't giving up.
I mentioned something like, "If you fall off a horse, you must get right back on it." Most second graders don't really understand that, and it wasn't terribly comforting. I mentioned the power of grit and that at our school we never give up. (I recently taught a leadership chat to the entire school about grit. It's becoming an important concept in our school.) The boy started to perk up. I said, "Come on, let me walk you to class." He clutched closer to his father. I shared again, how his Dad and I didn't want him to give up on himself, and that I knew he could do it. I absolutley promised that his class would understand. Dad shared similar sentiments. I suggested we could find a light jacket or sweater to wear over his short-sleeved shirt so his missing prosthetic would not be as noticeable. Finally, I stated, "OK, you don't need to go to class, but you do need to talk with your teacher and explain why you are leaving. I will take the class so you can talk with your teacher."
Reluctantly, we started to walk towards the class and within just 10 steps, one of our 4th grade teachers noticed us and said, "Hey, how's it going?" She is his "Den" teacher and has worked with him for three years as part of our school's leadership work. Again, the relationships we make with students matter. She helped ease any reluctance as we got closer to the classroom.
As we turned the corner, I saw the boy's teacher and all of the students in the hallway conducting a science experiment involving paper airplanes. I didn't need to explain anything to the teacher. All I said was, "Would you please take a moment to talk with our student? He needs to talk with you, and I will take the rest of the class." Again, without missing beat and with complete professionalism and understanding, the teacher, the father, and the boy stepped aside and talked while I engaged the rest of the class with their science experiment. In only 3 minutes, a small jacket appeared from the boy's locker, and he walked with his teacher to be with the rest of the class. It was obvious everything was going to be OK. I winked at the student and promised to check-in before the end of the day.
Another colleague appeared, and I had to talk with her about a different topic. The boy's father rushed to get the arm repaired before I could even talk with him.
I did check-in with the student. He had a good rest of the day, and his father returned with the repaired arm. I took a moment to hug and talk with the boy to let him know how proud of him I was. We had helped a young boy not give up. A father, a secretary, two teachers, a principal and really an entire school was inspired by and helped a boy show grit.
I spoke with the father after dinner tonight. I wanted to check-in with his son one more time, and I thanked him for working so closely with us. He said several very nice things about our school and the culture we set for all kids. I thanked him for being such an inspiration and asked permission to continue this story.
It's easy to say, "I won't give up." A second grader, however, taught me more today about what that really means. Not giving up is emotional, inspiring, courageous, and amazingly precious. Yes, I saw grit today in the heart of a second grader.
We have a second grader at our school who was born with a "stub" arm, and he wears a prosthetic arm. I wrote about this boy in a previous post. Please see the original post here. It's been more than two years since this story started, but today, and with permission from his father, this young man's story continues.
While part of my regular rounds in the school, I saw the boy and his class. He raised his arm to show me that his prosthetic arm was broken. The hand was twisted around backwards. I took the boy to the office and asked our school secretary to call his parents to see what we could do. Occassionally the arm has an issue, but we almost never have to do anything. In fact, I'd say the arm is "invisible" at school. We really don't think about it, and it isn't even a topic of conversation. Without missing a beat, our secretary, who was already dealing with a very busy office, smiled and took over. I love the close relationship our entire office staff has with our students. Both of our secretaries are like surrogate mothers for our students. It makes a difference.
I continued my rounds only to return to the office to see the boy and his father huddled in the corner. They were talking to each other in hushed tones. Dad talked to me in private that he needed to take the prosthetic arm to be repaired and that his son was embarrassed to return to class without the arm. This was a turning point for his son. The boy needed to return to class without his arm to learn that he is more than his prosthetic arm. And yet, the child is more self-conscious than he was in kindergarten. (I will never forget his first week of school in kindergarten when he would take his arm off and spin it around and above his head!) He did not want to go to class. He wanted to go with his father.
I was taken aback. How could this boy feel embarrassed? We've been through so much. Not returning to class would be like giving up on all that we have worked on at school. I was sad for him and wanted to help. Dad asked me to talk with his son. The mutual trust and respect we build with our families is like a precious jewel, and I was privileged to even be asked to talk with his son.
I smiled, held the boy's hand, pulled him close, and whispered, "Why do you look so sad? We really need you to go to class."
A small tear formed in his eye, as he shook his head, no.
"Buddy, it's going to be OK. Are you worried someone will say something mean about your arm? I promise, nobody will say anything mean. In fact, I will talk to the class so you feel comfortable."
Dad came in and held his son on his lap. He reiterated support for his son. He reminded his son how proud he and his wife were of all he does and who he is. Dad, in a beautiful way, told his son how much he loved him. His son asked why he couldn't go with his dad to get the arm repaired.
Here's where telepathy took over. I was really hoping Dad would agree with me how important it was going to be to help his son believe in himself so much that he could overcome a broken prosthetic arm. Dad was remarkable. He politely and calmly explained that his son had learning to do and that he would eventually need to learn to deal with a broken prosthetic arm. It was going to happen in the future, and now was the best time to learn. Now was the time to not give up. He reminded his son that our school had always been supportive and understanding, and the teachers would make sure everything was OK.
His son would not relent. He really wanted to go with his father. Despite even more small tears, we weren't giving up.
I mentioned something like, "If you fall off a horse, you must get right back on it." Most second graders don't really understand that, and it wasn't terribly comforting. I mentioned the power of grit and that at our school we never give up. (I recently taught a leadership chat to the entire school about grit. It's becoming an important concept in our school.) The boy started to perk up. I said, "Come on, let me walk you to class." He clutched closer to his father. I shared again, how his Dad and I didn't want him to give up on himself, and that I knew he could do it. I absolutley promised that his class would understand. Dad shared similar sentiments. I suggested we could find a light jacket or sweater to wear over his short-sleeved shirt so his missing prosthetic would not be as noticeable. Finally, I stated, "OK, you don't need to go to class, but you do need to talk with your teacher and explain why you are leaving. I will take the class so you can talk with your teacher."
Reluctantly, we started to walk towards the class and within just 10 steps, one of our 4th grade teachers noticed us and said, "Hey, how's it going?" She is his "Den" teacher and has worked with him for three years as part of our school's leadership work. Again, the relationships we make with students matter. She helped ease any reluctance as we got closer to the classroom.
As we turned the corner, I saw the boy's teacher and all of the students in the hallway conducting a science experiment involving paper airplanes. I didn't need to explain anything to the teacher. All I said was, "Would you please take a moment to talk with our student? He needs to talk with you, and I will take the rest of the class." Again, without missing beat and with complete professionalism and understanding, the teacher, the father, and the boy stepped aside and talked while I engaged the rest of the class with their science experiment. In only 3 minutes, a small jacket appeared from the boy's locker, and he walked with his teacher to be with the rest of the class. It was obvious everything was going to be OK. I winked at the student and promised to check-in before the end of the day.
Another colleague appeared, and I had to talk with her about a different topic. The boy's father rushed to get the arm repaired before I could even talk with him.
I did check-in with the student. He had a good rest of the day, and his father returned with the repaired arm. I took a moment to hug and talk with the boy to let him know how proud of him I was. We had helped a young boy not give up. A father, a secretary, two teachers, a principal and really an entire school was inspired by and helped a boy show grit.
I spoke with the father after dinner tonight. I wanted to check-in with his son one more time, and I thanked him for working so closely with us. He said several very nice things about our school and the culture we set for all kids. I thanked him for being such an inspiration and asked permission to continue this story.
It's easy to say, "I won't give up." A second grader, however, taught me more today about what that really means. Not giving up is emotional, inspiring, courageous, and amazingly precious. Yes, I saw grit today in the heart of a second grader.
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