Immunity

I spent over forty years in the education business, in the classroom and later in school administration, working every day with other people’s children.  When you do that, you catch a lot of colds and you catch a lot of excuses.  The colds are not so bad.  One day a student comes in with a handkerchief and sneezes on you.  You spend a day or two at home, but it’s seasonal.

Excuses, on the other hand, are year ‘round.  Some kids make a career of giving you reasons not to do the work.  For them it is an art form.  There are the wailers who tell you half their lives, and about the important family events and the visiting aunt from out-of-town last night. Won’t it be OK to hand it in tomorrow?  There are the future farmers whose goat ate it, and there are the future barristers who spend time trying to convince you that the problem was your lack of clarity on the assignment.

Plus, there are the forgetfulness excuses: I forgot … to write down the assignment … to do it … to bring it to school … to hand it in.  And there are time excuses:  I had to go to my job and had to work late … We had a game last night … The library was closed by the time I got there …

Many teachers listen to excuses.  You don’t want to be unfair.  You don’t want to be uncool.  You spend time and energy listening and judging.  You take on a responsibility that belongs to the student, and not to you.  Early on I was like that.

Then Jonathon came into my life.  He was a senior, taking my history class.  He was a good kid, likeable and friendly, and a big kid who played football and wrestled. He was a good athlete, but sports did not consume his life. 

Nor did his schoolwork. In the classroom he was laid back. He showed up almost all the time, caused no trouble, and did enough work to get the job done.  He didn’t burden himself with an overwhelming sense of industry.  He was a “B” student with the occasional “C” who could have pulled straight “A’s” if it had been important to him.  In that regard he belonged to the Great American Academic Majority.

He was like a thousand other kids whom you probably won’t remember. But I do remember Jonathon, and vividly so, because there was something unique about him. He never made excuses.  To him it was a form of lying, which he abhorred.                      

Me:      Jonathon, where is your homework?

Him:    Oh, I decided not to do it last night.

Me:      Jonathon, it appears you didn’t study for this quiz.

Him:    No, I chose to take my girlfriend to the movies instead.

One day when he returned from an absence, I asked him where he had been.  He answered, “Well, next week is Senior Ditch Day.  Yesterday I rehearsed.”

Another morning he appeared in the Attendance Office and handed in his note.  It read: “Yesterday I went to the beach.  The weather was great.  Please let me know what my consequence is.  Sincerely, Jonathon.”

He never asked you to bend the rules, nor begged for mercy. Nor was he ever rude or disrespectful.  He did not fail to do his work so often as get into academic peril — maybe four or five times a semester — and not on the big assignments.

You have heard it said that teachers learn from their students.  I learned a valuable lesson from Jonathon. He changed my whole line of thought.  He taught me something of great value for a classroom teacher, a parent, or anyone else who has some responsibility for the care of others.  He opened my eyes to see that there is no such thing as an excuse.  There is only a choice.  No excuses!  Just choices! 

It is so much easier when the burden of responsibility for the assignment is on the student, rather than the teacher.  When I finally stopped accepting excuses and tightened up on the deadlines, the same kids got the same grades as before; they just handed the work in earlier.

After Jonathon, if a student approached me with a sniffle and no homework, and began to offer an explanation, I would interrupt with, “Please don’t give me your cold, or your excuse.”

Over the years I developed an immunity to both.