"A Teachable Moment"

Art from Reader's Digest Feb. 10, 2023 article by Leandra Beabout

 I wrote this post in 2018 to capture the importance of an educator embracing the impact of students making connections. With what's happening in various Republican controlled states, I wanted to repost this example of what teaching really means for most of us. 

            I enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.

            A few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”. Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected variety to my day.

            When I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight years old.

            And the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.

            “What do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”

             “No. She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”

            “But she was little. Like us.”

            My eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”

            The same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back then to protect her?”

            “Things?”

            “Those things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”

            “Laws? You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.

            Every educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time. The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum. We refer to this as a teachable moment.

            “Our laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”

            Another student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”

            Another boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar sign in the air, “Money!”

            The classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.

            I glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Banned Books 2023

“Put God Back into Schools”

   

         The battle cry of conservatives whenever slain children’s bodies hallow hallways, “Put God Back into Schools” mystifies me. For thirty-five years I’ve worked within the public-school systems. I’ve stood reverently through daily rituals of moments of silence and respectfully kept mute as faculty members and staff openly pray “in Jesus’s name.” I’ve watched students bow their heads before taking major exams and preach personal beliefs to their friends.

         These people don’t understand that the business of public schools isn’t to proselytize. That responsibility lies with parents, family, communities—religious leaders. Many educators’ strong beliefs seep out of their pores. They may not sermon while in front of the classroom, but their religious agenda pervades and influences how they approach everything they do. Anyone observing within the public-school system knows that the students most oppressed are those with no faith.

   I feel confused that anyone’s religion professes that if the Ten Commandments aren’t posted in the classrooms of public schools, the punishment of an avenging God is a logical result.

     What kind of God do these people believe in?

 Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Cows in the Road”

In route to Doolin, Ireland Sept. 2010

          When my father first met my mother, he told her he and his family owned “land in Texas.” Although my mother’s family no longer owned their farm in Illinois, others in her family still farmed their acreage. Visions of Giant must have briefly flashed through my mother’s mind until my father jokingly admitted that the “land” consisted of the two plots his parents and aunt owned in League City, Texas. My mother, interested more in Dad’s good looks than his possible oil rigs or herds of cattle, married him anyway.

          As a couple, my parents moved frequently. During the first few years, Dad’s training took him to twenty-four different places, and my mother followed him each time. In later years, they entertained us kids with tales of Texas Panhandle dust, Shreveport gumbo, and Florida lizards big enough to ride. By the time I came along, Dad had completed his training and began three or four year assignments in exotic places like New Jersey and Delaware. After a year in Vietnam, Dad decided to say goodbye to Air Force life and retired in San Antonio, Texas. He wished to be closer to his own aging mother and great aunt, who still resided on the family “estate” in League City, but he didn’t want to be too close.

          My siblings and I, transplanted so many times in our childhood, fixed deep roots in Texas. If you heard my sister speak, you’d never suspect she’d lived anywhere but here. Having spent from the age of two to five in New Jersey, I had a different accent for quite a while, and my blended twang belongs uniquely to me. My brother, somehow, escaped the Texas drawl. All three of us have never thought about leaving the state. As a matter of fact, my brother lives in my parents’ home while Mom’s living with us. My sister and her husband landed in Bay City after they graduated from college thirty-seven years ago, and David and I settled back in San Antonio as soon as I graduated from college.

          Now, I don’t go around claiming Texas is the grandest state in the nation. Nor do I deride others for living in different states. Most of the time, I muddle through each day without much claim to “Texas Pride.” When we travel to other states, I enjoy the beauty and unique features of each place, but I’ve always been glad to return home—until Ireland.

          David and I try to spend our vacations in new places, but we talk of returning to Ireland eventually. On our last trek up to our cabin in the Hill Country, the summer’s drought scorched everything in sight. The contrast to Ireland’s lush green made me wince. Clouds of dust enveloped our SUV as we snaked down our rocky road, and we stopped for some cows in the road.  Instantly, I transported to another street. This lane, slicked wet by an earlier rain, rolled among soft green hills. We paused in our journey on this faraway track because of cows in the road.

          I know the “What if we leave Texas?” temptation is only a game we play. We’ll cling to our soft hills, green only in the spring, and our winding rugged roads because our roots have fastened themselves so deeply below the rocky ground (probably in search of water).

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman