teaching outside the walls

My iPhone buzzes. An iMessage notification from a number I do not recognize. I open the notification to see a politely worded message from a former student of 4 years ago.

Tyler:

Hello I was wondering if this was Mrs Woodson's phone number(coach sadel) this is Tyler -----.

Me:

Tyler! Hi yes this is Mrs Woodson! How are you?

Tyler:

I'm good I actually made a couple of new career choices and I was going to ask you in person but they would appreciate if I had my packet done today. I'm joining the army and I was wondering if it would be alright if I used you as a recommendation?

Me:

You're joining the army! Congratulations. Yes of course you can use me as a Rec. What information do you need from me?

Tyler:

All I need other than your approval is your address and zip so if they needed to reach out to you they could. I hope thats not too much to ask of you I understand it's a bit out of left field.

Me:

It's fine. I don't mind at all. I'm so happy to help. Address: --- ------- -----, ------ -------

Tyler:

Thank you so much I do plan on visiting you sometime here soon you teach in McKinney now right?

Me:

Yes I am in Mckinney. You better visit me before you go off to boot camp.

Tyler:

I don't ship out for another month so plenty of time for me to come see you before I leave.

He was the kid you were never sure was even interested in being there - he didn't turn his work in, he never said much during discussions, soft voice, polite, but sort of an illusive kid. Until one assignment unlocked everything he had been trying to ignore, hide, and suppress. The Crayola Poem: an assignment that challenges a student to select a color name from the vast Crayola list and write a free verse poem identifying themselves within the color. Assessment created by yours truly.

I remember reading his Outer Space poem and calling my mom to read it to her; as a former teacher, she loves to hear my student's work especially when it is spectacular like his poem. She was blown away. So was I. This quiet kid who wouldn't turn in a formative assignment, barely spoke, and always nodded to say hello lit the page on fire with his visual astronomical imagery with the Crayola color Outer Space. I knew I had to speak with him one on one, so I asked him to stay after class ended one day. I can't tell you what I said, but the summary of it was that I affirmed his voice and style in the poem and challenged/requested to see more of it throughout class. I meant it. His voice needs to be heard.

Side note: Tyler lives a little over an hour away from my current school, but he insisted he had to visit before he left and would bring Taylor, the girl who I also taught and was a manager for me in basketball for a season. Taylor is one year below Tyler. I taught Tyler in an inclusion class. I taught Taylor in an all Gifted & Talented class.

Fast-forward a week, and I am in my classroom after school expecting my visitors.

Tyler graduated last spring and Taylor is in her senior year at Southlake Carroll, my former district of four years. I am tutoring current students when they walk into my room with smiles and a Starbucks for me.

"Ahhhhhh! You're here!" I jump up from the group table to greet them with huge hugs. The kind of hug that outsiders would interpret as family greeting one another for a holiday.

"Welcome! I'm so glad you are here!" I say gesturing to the cozy space of my room, and when I say room I mean a four-walled carpeted room lit by four Ikea lamps, a hanging dangling string of white Christmas lights across the back wall, and a modern LED Ikea light on my built-into-the-wall desk in the far corner. Their eyes scan and start logging things they recognize and things they don't from when they had me.

"Grab a seat on the couch," I suggest as Taylor hands me the iced caramel latte.

"I will finish up with these two shortly, they are just working on their slam poems." I add. They take a seat on the couch while I return to my two students.

Ten minutes later, the two current students are feeling more comfortable with the direction of their writing and have left. I am sitting in a student seat with my Converse propped up on a student desk facing Tyler and Taylor on the couch. Our threads of catch up conversations wove a web that would be unrecognizable to anyone else. Topics were my relatively recent marriage, Taylor's disgruntled perspective on her senior English class, my wedding dress, Tyler's upcoming basic training, peers in Tyler's class, peers in Taylor's class, Taylor's passion for mission work, the design of the campus, the Southlake bubble, various assessments they remembered and their reactions, the design of my new classroom verses my previous one, how Taylor and I will road-trip to Tyler's graduation of specialty school in the distant future, book recommendations, and on and on.

We talked unfazed by the random pop-in from colleagues or vacuuming by our maintenance worker; it wasn't going to distract the three of us from using every moment of this Friday afternoon together. I took some notes on their feedback from my class. They had plenty of praise for it calling it "a place to explore creativity" and where they were encouraged to take risks within assessments. But they also offered feedback for me and recognition of how various assessments offered them a chance to be introspective.

What happened next still boggles my mind.

As we moved through the web, we found ourselves discussing the Crayola Poem assessment. I pointed to some examples from the previous year that now act as wall decor stating that last year I provided an opportunity to have a visual component with the poem. I asked if they thought that was necessary since it did sort of take away from the integrity of the writing piece.

"I don't think it's needed," they said. "Takes away from the power of the words." They added.

"Mrs. Woodson I have a confession about the Crayola poem," Tyler states running his hands through his hair.

"Umm...okay," I reply a little confused. You see, Tyler's Crayola poem became the stuff of legends. I used his writing as an example of what I expect with future classes for the following years and constantly bragged on it.

"See, that poem I...I...uh...I wrote it on the way to school THAT morning on the bus," he recounted. He continued explaining: I just totally forgot to do it because of everything that was going on at home...and you probably don't know but I really wasn't interested in school at the time. I barely turned anything in - I just didn't think school was for me. At that time, I was already considering the military as the only possible option for myself because I didn't think I could even get to college. So that morning on the bus I suddenly remembered we had that poem due and I just wrote it on my phone then I think I went to Mrs. Ball's classroom to print it off before class started. And I just know how much you talk about it and praise it and I just had to tell you that I wrote it the day of and now when I go back and read it like I did the other day I see so many spaces where I could enhance the message or change the word choice.

"Tyler...I don't care," I reply smiling. It was like some big secret he'd been carrying around ashamed that he didn't confess sooner. The assignment was a "process" poem and we did a ton of pre-writing in class, so whether he understood it or not he did the pre-work just maybe not in stanzas. You could see the weight of his worry lift off his shoulders. He thought that would somehow change my perspective on him, on the work, on our relationship.

"The poem was incredible, and yes I am sure you could make adjustments and revisions to it now. But that's the beauty of writing, it's always evolving and never finished, so go back and work on it," I added. Taylor watched the conversation unfold almost as if she knew this had been on his mind.

Tyler absorbs my words.

"Have you told her about the tattoo?" Taylor asks. My eyebrows raise. He smiles.

"I'm sorry...a tattoo...?" I say.

Tyler blushes a little and goes into the explanation: So you see I remember that day you asked to talk to me about my poem. I was terrified...like somehow you must have figured out that I wrote it on the bus and not ahead of time. Then you sat next to me and told me how important my voice is and how I had been holding back my potential and that you needed me to step up and share my ideas with the class and the world. And that conversation changed everything. See up until then, like I said school just wasn't for me. So that poem...it changed everything. After that conversation, I started trying in my classes, and even though it was hard to recover from that first semester of doing nothing - I did and it's all because of that Crayola assignment. Outer Space. Who knew someone's life could change because of a color? And so I want to get a visual of outer space tattooed on my upper arm, but I don't like the blue and purple galaxy stuff I've seen so I will get with an artist to design it in black and white and gray.

Speechless.

At the time, there was absolutely no way for me to predict the trajectory of that conversation. And that's the thing about being a teacher outside the walls, it's not a tangible measurable act. There's no formula, no coursework, and no checklist. It's validating student voice, providing space for students to explore, and then challenging them to grow their potential. We are called to transform the learning experience from the four walls to the real world and beyond.