6th graders are kryptonite

I'm only two days into the school year, and I've already cried on the subway ride home.

I'm teaching 6th grade this year.  I've never taught people quite this little before.  They're small and fragile, which was exactly why I didn't want to teach this grade.

Seventh grade has been MY grade.  Some 7th graders may still be small and fragile, but they'll fight to the death to hide it.  The #1 goal of 7th graders is to perfect the swagger, the tough bravado, the I-don't-care attitude.  Those 12- and 13-year olds act like they want nothing to do with their teachers, or any adults, and they resist the structure we establish with the last bit of strength they've got.  Every 7th grade teacher knows the phrase, "Choose the hill you want to die on," because everything is a battle.

Everything.

And that's been great, because I'm an excellent soldier.  I like the action.  I'm good in crisis mode.  I can handle high drama.

I have lived in my identity as a 7th grade teacher for most of my educational career, even when I was out of the classroom and working as a literacy coach.  In my eyes, 7th grade is no joke; 7th grade is hardcore.  If you can handle 7th graders, the neurologically insane (it's true!), you can handle anything.  So, I've basked in my story that I am a 7th grade teacher because it says
I am invincible.


Of course, I met my 6th grade classes, and everything changed.

On our second day together, I asked my 6th graders to show me what they know how to do - to show off for me - by writing the best personal narrative they know how to write.  For 45 minutes, I watched them, their heads bowed over their papers, intensely focused on the task at hand.  When I gave a five minute warning, there was an audible gasp.  Oh, the pressure!  I thanked them and smiled as I collected their stories, and told them how excited I was to spend my weekend learning all about them through their writing.

I'd planned to settle in at home on Saturday and read all their work right after my morning cup of coffee when my mind is its freshest. But my commute on the train is an hour door-to-door, and the stories seemed to call to me that Friday night.  I pulled out the folder from my backpack and began to read.

And you can't believe the stories they wrote... you can't believe the beautiful secrets, the tender hearts they held out to me.  I have known my students for two days - I don't even know all their names yet - and they are already trusting me with these beautiful, vulnerable pieces of themselves.

One student wrote:
Now I'm going to tell you who I live with and why.  Me talking about this gets me a little sad because it's not good at all.  I live with my aunt and I live with her because my mom can't take care of me.  I wish I lived with my mom because I always think about her.  I love my mom and dad so much and I miss them.

How brave he is.  How incredibly brave.

This 6th grader has gone and done it; he's gone and proven that I am, in fact, not invincible at all.  I am all exposed nerves, just like these amazing children that I am so blessed to teach.

Maybe my tough exterior is as thin as the candy coating of my 7th graders'.  Maybe I'm not all warrior after all.

Lucky me.