ELLEN
BERG
Diary #3
Goodbye to Mr. I. Can't
Last Friday I attended a funeral, and I can't think when I've had so much fun. Or when I've ever learned so much.
Okay, the ceremony wasn't for any real person but rather to emphasize the death of two little words that cripple my students (and probably the rest of us) and keep them from taking risks. On Friday we had a funeral to say goodbye to the words, "I Can't." I wish I could take credit for the idea, but it is one I heard of several years ago and have just gotten around to trying. As I was taking a ten-hour train ride from Cusco to Puno, Peru, doing some planning for the beginning of the school year, the idea just popped back in my brain, and I spent a good hour outlining my plans and writing the eulogy for our dear friend, I. Can't. I set the stage on Thursday, telling each group at the end of class that I had some sad news to tell them the next day, and I could not tell them anything else except that it involved a death. They gasped and begged me to tell them more, but I would not.I designed a small coffin with a makeshift tombstone that read,
I. Can't
Beginning of time --September 7, 2001
We come here today to mourn the loss of our dear friend, Brother I. Can't. We will miss him dearly, but we know that today he is in a better place, able to do all the things he professed he was unable to do all of his life. I. Can't was afraid of failure, and he made us afraid of failure too. I Can't was afraid of looking stupid or foolish, and he pushed us to feel afraid of looking stupid or foolish as well. I Can't kept all of us from learning, growing, and living our lives for a long time. However, from this day forward, I. Can't is no longer with us. After today, we will speak his name no more. Today, we will not be afraid of failure because we know that failure is an opportunity to learn. Today, we will not be afraid of looking stupid or foolish, because trying is never stupid or foolish. Today, we will begin to learn, grow, and push ourselves to do whatever we set our minds to. Today, I. Can is born.
I. Can't requested that we read his last will and testament today and follow his instructions explicitly:
"I, I. Can't, being of sound mind and body, request that after my death no one speak my name. I realize now in my old age how much my unwillingness to try limited my life. I stayed in my house, afraid to do anything for fear of failure. In these, my last days, I wish to atone for my sins. I have given all of you an excuse not to try, and for that I am deeply sorry. "My last request is that you write down your "I Can'ts" on the pieces of paper that Mrs. Berg will hand you and place them in my coffin as you say your goodbyes. Once your I Can'ts are with me, they no longer exist, and you will be able to do anything you set your mind to. "I will die an unhappy, bitter, angry old man because I did not try. But you, you have the opportunity to succeed at anything you try."
As I was reading the eulogy, I received many reactions from my students. Some were looking at me with the most sincere look of hope that what I was saying was true. Others were excited about the prospect of burying their fears or laughing at the very serious way I was approaching the death of our fictional character. Not one person rolled their eyes or acted like this was a waste of time. My fears and theirs I passed out slips of paper that had the words, "I Can't" on them to each table. While I was planning, I thought it might be difficult to get kids to even write one slip; I was not sure they would buy in. I could not have been more wrong. Student after student asked for more slips. Some students had two or three while many others had ten or more. I had told them to keep their names off the slips and to fold them in half, and they seemed emboldened by the privacy. I share some of my I Can'ts with them as well, and they seemed shocked that I had the same doubts and fears they did. I called each table up to the coffin, and they dropped their slips in. Some students pretended to cry, others knelt in front of it, and a few of my boys threw themselves on top of it in mock grief. At the end of the day I took the time to look through some of what they had written on those slips of paper. They ranged from the typical worries of the average middle school student -- "I can't do my own hair," or "I can't play basketball well" -- to deeper issues -- "I can't read," or "I can't graduate from high school." The deeper concerns of my students truly touched me, and I wanted to cry as I read their outpourings of feelings of inadequacy. The first step is to get them to take risks The main reason I decided to use this activity is because so often my largest task is not the instruction itself but in getting my students to just try -- to take risks. So many of them have placed themselves in an invisible box of what they can have and be, and anything outside the confines of that box is lost to them. I hate to see my students so beaten down and sure of their failure when they are as capable as any other student anywhere else. One child's reaction stands out to me in this experiment. "Dean," a sixth grader who turned 13 early in August, is your typical class clown. He has a fantastic sense of humor, and I have noticed he tends to get more humorous in uncomfortable situations. He came to us from an area suburban district where he was diagnosed learning disabled in reading and language expression. Because of his age, I am assuming he failed a grade somewhere along the line. Dean is currently living in a group foster home. I have been much puzzled by this young man. My early assessment of his reading and writing skills shows no impairment, and in fact, I would put him above grade level in both areas. He has an open love of reading, and his writing is well organized with plenty of details and explanations. He has turned in all of his homework and eagerly attacks all class work. Aside from a few, poorly timed (for me), humorous comments early on in the school year, Dean has been a model student. I see nothing of an underachiever. I suspect that Dean's "creativity" may have been received in a very unwelcome manner in the suburban district he came from. I am afraid he may have fallen victim to the very real epidemic of special education classification of African-American males in our country because he did not respond in the expected manner. In any case, throughout my eulogy for I. Can't, I watched Dean's eyes turn soft and shiny, and he seemed much younger for a few minutes. He was looking at me as if he wanted so desperately to believe that all I was saying was true, that he could do anything he wanted to with his life. I owe this child the opportunity and support that will help him prove to himself he can be a success. I owe that to all of my children.
