THE "I CAN'T" FUNERAL
Donna's fourth-grade classroom
looked like many others I had seen in the past. Students sat in five rows of
six desks. The teacher's desk was in front and faced the students. The bulletin
board featured student work. In most respects it appeared to be a typically
traditional elementary classroom. Yet something seemed different that day I
entered it for the first time. There seemed to be an undercurrent of
excitement.
Donna was a veteran small-town
Michigan schoolteacher only two years away from retirement. In addition she was
a volunteer participant in a countrywide staff development project I had
organized and facilitated. The training focused on language arts ideas that
would empower students to feel good about themselves and take charge of their
lives. Donna's job was to attend training sessions and implement the concepts
being presented. My job was to make classroom visitations and encourage
implementation.
I took an empty seat in the back
of the room and watched. All the students were working on a task, filling a
sheet of notebook paper with thoughts and ideas. The ten-year-old student next
to me was filling her page with "I Cant's".
"I can't kick the soccer ball
past second base." "I can't do long division with more than three
numerals." "I can't get Debbie to like me."
Her page was half full and she
showed no signs of letting up. She worked on with determination and
persistence.
I walked down the row glancing in
student's papers. Everyone was writing sentences, describing things they
couldn't do. "I can't do ten push-ups." "I can't hit one over
the left hand fence." "I can't eat only one cookie."
By this time the activity engaged
my curiosity, so I decided to check with the teacher to see what was going on.
As I approached her, I noticed that she too was busy writing. I felt it best
not to interrupt.
"I can't get John's mother to
come for a teacher conference." "I can't get my daughter to put gas
in the car." "I can't get Alan to use words instead of fists."
Thwarted in my efforts to
determine why students and teacher were dwelling on the negative instead of
writing the more positive "I Can" statements, I returned to my seat
and continued my observations. Students wrote for another ten minutes. Most
filled their page. Some started another.
"Finish the one you're on and
don't start a new one," were the instructions Donna used to signal the end
of the activity. Students were then instructed to fold the papers in half and
bring them to the front. When the students reached their teacher's desk, they
placed their "I Can't" statements into an empty shoe box.
When all of the students papers
were collected, Donna added hers. She put the lid on the box, tucked it under
her arm and headed out the door and down the hall. Students followed the
teacher. I followed the students.
Halfway down the hallway the
procession stopped. Donna entered the custodian's room rummaged around and came
out with a shovel. Shovel in one hand, shoe box in the other, Donna marched the
students out to the school to the farthest corner of the playground. There they
began to dig.
They were going to bury their
"I Cant's"! The digging took over ten minutes because most of the
fourth graders wanted a turn. When the hole approached three fee deep, the
digging ended. The box of "I Cant's" was placed in a position at the
bottom of the hole and then quickly covered with dirt.
Thirty-one 10-and 11-year-olds
stood around the freshly dug grave site. Each had at least one page full of
"I Cant's" in the shoe box, four-feet under. So did their teacher.
At this point Donna announced,
"Boys and girls, please join hands and bow your heads."
The students complied. They
quickly formed a circle around the grave, creating a bond with their hands.
They lowered their heads and waited. Donna delivered the eulogy.
"Friends, we gather here
today to honor the memory of 'I Can't.' While he was with us here on earth, he
touched, the lives or everyone, some more than others. His name unfortunately,
has been spoken in every public building, school, city halls, state capitols,
and yes, even The White House.
"We have provided 'I Can't'
with a final resting place and a headstone that contained his epitaph. His is
survived by his brothers and sisters, 'I Can,' 'I Will' and 'I'm Going to Right
Away.' They are not as well known as their famous relative and are certainly
not as strong and powerful yet. Perhaps someday, with your help, they will make
an even bigger mark on the world.
"May 'I Can't' rest in peace
and may everyone present pick up their lives and move forward in his absence.
Amen."
As I listened to the eulogy I
realized that these students would never forget this day. The activity was
symbolic, a metaphor for life. It was a right brain experience that would stick
in the unconscious and conscious mind forever.
Writing "I Cant's,"
burying them and hearing the eulogy. That was a major effort on this part of
the teacher. And she wasn't done yet. At the conclusion of the eulogy she
turned the students around, marched them back into the classroom and held a
wake.
They celebrated the passing of
"I Can't" with cookies, popcorn and fruit juices. As part of the
celebration, Donna cut a large tombstone from butcher paper. She wrote the
words "I Can't" at the top and put RIP in the middle. The date was
added at the bottom.
The paper tombstone hung in
Donna's classroom for the remainder of the year. On those rare occasions when a
student forgot and said, "I Can't," Donna simply pointed to the RIP
sign. The student then remembered that "I Can't" was dead and chose
to rephrase the statement.
I wasn't one of Donna's students.
She was one of mine. Yet that day I learned an enduring lesson from her.
Now, years later, whenever I hear
the phrase, "I Can't," I see images of that fourth-grade funeral.
Like the students, I remember that "I Can't" is dead.
(Author Unknown)
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