Recognition Assembly

We had a Recognition Assembly in the gym at the end of school last Friday. It was intended to honor students and teachers who have accomplished remarkable things this winter. As Lincoln said at Gettysburg , ‘It is altogether fitting and proper that we do this.’

But I watched it this time from a unique perspective. And I recognized something that troubled me.

All 1,200-odd students were there. The school band was set up at the eastern end of the gym, playing a demanding orchestral piece called ‘ Inchon ,’ which commemorates a great battle of the Korean War. It starts very quietly, with the sound of waves on a beach, and a flute solo, pianissimo.

Band director David Aines waved his musicians off after a few bars. The students were making too much noise. While he pleaded for respectful attention, I climbed up near the top of the bleachers against the western wall, as far away as it was possible to get from the band. I knew what I would find up there. There were about a dozen students raising hell, talking in loud voices, giggling, eating snacks, jeering at the musicians or conspicuously ignoring the performance. Or perhaps they were putting on a performance of their own.

Social studies teacher Nancy Gagnon was up there, too, but she was outnumbered. I joined her, and we tried shushing them. They got a little quieter, but they still weren’t paying attention. They knew this assembly was not for them.

At first I was angry, but then I started to feel sad for them. It’s hard enough to spend their days in a place where they consistently fail. To be forced to spend the last hour of another discouraging week celebrating those who succeed; to be forced to listen to accolades for students who have won academic, artistic, or sporting laurels; to have their noses rubbed in their own dim prospects is cruel indeed.

These sullen, disobedient oafs were all fresh, beautiful, bright children once, before the relentless culling process began. The sorting-out may have started ten years ago, when teachers put books in their hands, maybe for the first time. Or perhaps it was when they first stared blankly at a page of numbers and felt the panic rising inside. For all of them, there must have been a moment when they recognized that a world full of possibility had turned into a weary trudge up a long, long hill.

I didn’t know any of them by name. My schedule is filled with honors and college-prep classes. Many of my students struggle with academics, but at least they still struggle. There wasn’t much fight left in these kids, except the daily battle against humiliation.

I’m not naive. I know that next week I’ll be losing my temper with these same kids, or others like them. They are the ones who wander the halls aimlessly when they’re supposed to be in class, who use foul language incessantly, who clog the halls during passing time and ignore polite requests to keep moving.

But this day, as the Recognition Assembly drew to a close, I found myself talking gently to the lost souls in the top corner of the bleachers instead of snarling at them. ‘It will only last a little longer,’ I whispered, the way one whispers to a child who is frightened or in pain. ‘Just a few minutes longer.’