I know my students. Masses of awkward seventh graders swarm the halls of my rural middle school each day, hauling backpacks over one shoulder, talking and shuffling along the tile hallway floor from class to class. I watch them like a general from my post(my classroom door) and smile at the fact that I can call each one by name.
I know their secrets, their stories. Dora slouches1 and is shy, and I know it is because she spends all her time at home trying not to get noticed, so she won’t feel the brunt of her stepfather’s angry hand. Jay can pitch like a tenth grader, and all the girls swoon2 when he and his blond hair strut by, but I know he doesn’t really even like baseball that much (he plays because his dad wants him to) and he is too scared to ask out the girl he likes. The kids think Keith is just the class clown, but I know of his dreams to be an astronaut(and I’ve rmended him for space camp). I know my students because I am their writing teacher. They trust me with their stories and so I am given the privilege3 of having a secret bond with each and every one of them.
I teach my students about the power of words, and I try to let them find release and expression through writing. We learn to trust each other in writing class because we learn how hard it is to write openly and honestly, and we learn that sharing your words takes courage. I see courage every day in my classroom, and I